V^r. fr-li,;' ■'•;;. ?.■:'; 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



'0<: 



Si^jt iqiiirijl^t !f0* 

Slielf...Mi. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






Copyright 1893, 

WEST, JOHNSTON & CO. 

Richmond, Va. 



PRESSES OF EVERETT WADDEY CO. 



Froa 
Dixie. 



)|( f^i Origir\al articles cor^tributed by SoUtl^err^ 
writers for pUblicatior^ as a SoUver\ir of tl^e 
/Aen\orial Bazaar for th^e ber\efit of tl:\e Aor^U- 
rqer^t to tb^e Private Soldiers ar\d Sailors of 
ti^e Cor^federacy ar\d t}\e establishn^er^t of tl\e 
A.UseUrT\ for Cor\^federate Relics, with\ h\ereto- 
fore lir^pUblished poerT\s, by son\e wt\o h^ave 
" crossed over tl^e river." 



C 



'^ 



% Ridirrtoqd, Ya. : WEST, vJOHHSTOH & CO., 



yyy' 



nDCCCXCIlI. 



13c5ication: 

To THE Unforgotten Dead of an Honored Cause, 

This Book is Dedicated 

By their Compatriots, in Admiration of 

Unrecorded Valor. 



■ ■ 

. It would hardly he fair to the authors tvhose contribu- 
tions make up this hook, to send 

out into the vjorld without a word of explanation : 
. These poems and stories have been collected from their 
various authors by simply stating to them the cause 
in behalf of which this book is published. Tiie 
book as a whole is a tribute to the Confederate 
Soldier from some of tlie most prominent of our 
Southern authors. It urill be sold for the benefit of 
the Monument to the Confederate Private Soldier and 
Sailor, to be erected in Richmond, Virginia, and for a 
Museum of Confederate Relics, to be established in 
the Executive 3Iansion of the late Confederate States. 
Without exception these men and women have 
already wox their laurels, and a gift from their pe)is 
is no empty or unmeaning thing. 

. It seemed to me that no list of prominent Southern 
authors could be called fairly representative ivhich 
omitted the name of Father Ryan, the poet-priest of 
the war. By the kind permission of his valued 
friend, Mrs. D. Hannis Taylor, of Mobile, Alabama, 
I have inserted three poems of his written in Mrs. 
Taylor's Album, and which have never before been 
given to the public. 



. For the same reason, I desired most earnestly to in- 
corporate some lines of the poet who fought, while 
the other poet prayed /or the cause equally dear to 
both. Mrs. Sidney Lanier has consented to the puh- 
Ucation of a short poem by her gifted husband, 
which is, perhaps, the only one of his poems which 
has heretofore been withheld from the press. 

. To the daughter of James Barron Hope I am in- 
debted for the sonnet which bears her honored 
father^ name. 

. The poem bearing the signature of John R. Thomp- 
son was given to me by the lady to vJiom it iras 
written. 

. The rest of the contributions come from the authors 
themselves, with the glad cordiality characteristic of 
Southern enthusiasm. 

KATE PLEASANTS MINOR. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Alison Stewart, by M. G. McClelland 11 

To Lucie, by Sidney Lanier 39 

Sketch of Sidney Lanier, by William Hand Browne 40 

Solitude, by John B. Tabb 52 

The Indian of San Salvador, by John B. Tabb 53 

My Soul— She Hath Great Care for Me, by Rob't Burns Wilson, 54 

Song, by Amelia Rives 59 

Pendleton Neil of Rosalia, by William W. Archer 63 

The Wanderer, by James Lane Allen 102 

To A Saxon Woman, by Thomas Nelson Page 104 

The Red Lord OF the Soil, by James Barron Hope 105 

Miss Isabella, by N. B. Winston 109 

Benedicite, by John R. Thompson 121 

Prologue, by Father Ryan 123 

In Venice, by Father Ryan 124 

Easter Sunday, by Father Ryan 126 

Moon Possessed, by Charles Washington Coleman 127 

Some Data, by Sarah Barnwell Elliott 133 

The Furlough, bv John B. Tabb 166 



ALISON STEWART. 



ALISON STEWART. 

The ten years following immediately on 
the close of the civil war was a bitter bad 
time in the South, and particularly in Vir- 
ginia. Her tobacco trade was gone, her 
farms had been turned into battle-fields; all 
the debts predicated on negro property had 
come on the land, and there was no staple, 
like cotton, to fall back on; all this added to 
the horrors of reconstruction. To the women 
those ten years were a nightmare of mis- 
fortune and effort. They were bound to 
new conditions, like victims to a wheel, 
and broken by them. Life was disrupted, 
even paralyzed, and homes which had been 
in families since the settlement of the country 
passed into other hands. 

Among others, the fortunes of war had 
borne heavily on the Stewarts of Hovendon. 
It was the old story, hoary with repetition, 
the grisly sequence of debt, devastation, dis- 
sipation and death. What would you? Pas- 
sions unchained run wild courses ere they 
are kenneled again. 



12 Frovi Di: 



ixie. 



Alison Stewart stood in the old hall at Ho- 
vendon, one October night and listened to the 
tall clock in the corner wheeze midnight. Her 
hands were wrung together and flung down in 
front of her to the strained extent of her arms; 
her brow was drawn into vertical lines and 
her eyes, in the lamp-light, looked hard and 
bright with the smarting of unshed tears. 
She gazed about her with pained intentness, 
like a person focusing impressions, striving 
to secure sharp minuteness in detail. She 
had lived amid these surroundings for eight- 
and-twenty years, and it had taken her fore- 
fathers many times that number to accumu- 
late them. Her breath tangled in her throat 
so that she was forced to sob for relief. She 
lifted the lamp and moved slowly about, 
touching one thing and another, as though 
taking leave of them, realizing how hard it 
was, and swaying a little as she walked, like 
a wind-stirred sapling. She was a woman 
whose local attachments were woven into her 
being. 

Presently she left the hall, crossed a vesti- 
bule and entered a chamber, closing the door 
softly behind her. The room was in scrupu- 
lous order, but bore no evidence of being 



Alison Stewart. 13' 

occupied. It was furnished after a by-gone 
fashion, with quaint chairs, spindle-legged 
tables, a tall chest of drawers, ornamented 
with brass-work and a handsome four-poster 
of finely carved mahogany, black with age. 
Beside the bed stood the little carpet-covered 
steps rendered necessary by the height of 
the structure, heaped high with feather bed 
and mattresses. Between the windows was a 
handsome cheval-glass and over the mantle 
was a quaint subdivided mirror in a tarnished 
gilt frame, both of which Alison avoided, 
fearing to confront her own reflection. 

She crossed the room, placed her lamp on 
the candle-stand and sat down on the little 
bed-steps, resting her head against the pil- 
low. This had been the bridal chamber, the 
birth chamber, and the death chamber of 
many generations. Her grandfather, her 
father, she herself, and three of her brothers 
had all first beheld the light of the material 
world within these walls. Not Dougal — the 
youngest son, the boy next her in age — he, 
by accident, had been born elsewhere. She 
was glad that it should have happened so, 
and* then angry with herself for being glad. 
But it seemed fitting that Dougal should have 



14 From Dixie. 

been born elsewhere — at a wayside tavern. 
And yet he had been of her own flesh and blood 
— a Stewart — even as those others, the three 
gallant lads who had died, as soldiers should, 
with their backs to the blood-soaked earth, 
their faces upturned to that infinite into 
which they had passed. She kept that fact 
before her steadfastly, not daring to let it go — 
that Dougal was of the same flesh as those 
others ; she needed to keep it so, in order not 
to be gentle and forbearing about him ; his 
spirit had been so diff'erent. It was easier to 
be gentle now that death stood between them 
— death whose strange mystery shadowed 
evil, and made unkindness shrink together 
and vanish from sight. If only death had 
come on the field of battle, or here, quiet- 
ly, naturally, as it had come to her hon- 
ored father. But death by his own hand — 
death in the reaction end of a drunken frolic ! 
It was bitter for a Stewart to realize that so a 
Stewart had faced the eternal mystery. 

Nor was this the worst. Five days after 
Dougal had been laid in his grave, a stranger 
had come to her bringing another mortgage 
on the place, a much heavier mortgage than 
that left by her father which she had hoped 



Alison Stewart. 15 

so earnestly to be able to pay. This last in- 
strument was held by a stranger — a ^' carpet- 
bagger," as they were called, one of those who 
had come to the South for gain after the strug- 
gle. It contained her signature as well as 
her brother's, and Dougal had sworn to its 
verity, before a notary, ere affixing his own ; 
telling some plausible story of her being un- 
able to come to the notary's office herself. It 
had been irregular, but neither notary nor 
mortgagee had been over-scrupulous. Hoven- 
don was a good property in spite of bad man- 
agement. 

In the shock and surprise of it, Alison had 
been strained to keep from betraying her 
brother ; to make her face impassive and her 
voice steady while she declared her intention 
of sustaining her brother's action. She did 
not acknowledge the forged signature. in so 
many words ; she could not. But she sent 
the man away satisfied that the security he 
held would prove good paper. She knew 
that she was beggared and homeless, but she 
knew also that it would be better so than that 
the dead man should be doubly dishonored. 

When the first bitterness past, she took to 
making excuses for him, to putting the blame 



16 From Dixie. 

on those hard campaigning years during 
which men were often forced to resort to 
liquor to counteract under-feeding and over- 
strain; in many instances to keep body and 
soul together. The habit had fastened on 
Dougal then, and his will had never been 
strong enough to force it to loosen its grip. 
He had taken liquor to deaden the pain of 
an old wound; to help him through the strain 
of trying to bring order from chaos; to 
deaden old memories and new griefs. Finally, 
he drank hard to quell the shame of drinking 
at all, and so on to the culminating tragedy. 

After that Alison had decided that the 
plantation must go. Judiciously managed, 
it might bring enough to satisfy all demands 
and make the financial record clean. A 
friend of the family — Mr. David Lipscomb — 
came forward and helped her arrange mat- 
ters, found a purchaser for the place, house- 
hold plenishing and stock, just as it stood, 
and effected the final settlement on a better 
basis than she could have done. This was her 
last night under the old roof, and she felt it. 

Alison reached out her hand and stroked 
the pillow, sobbing out words and sentences 
as though in answer to a plea. 



Alison Stewart, 17 

'* There, dear! — rest — rest! I know! I un- 
derstand! 'Twas the evil old habit which 
misled him — the sinful old habit contracted 
amid cold, hunger and bloodshed. He wasn't 
himself when he did it — not your boy — not 
my brother. It is forgiven now; forgiven 
and made straight in this world. And for 
the rest — God is pitiful! God is pitiful!" 

The next morning, when she was making 
her final preparations, a servant came to say 
that Mr. Lipscomb was on the front porch 
and wished to speak to her. She went out 
to him at once. 

A clever, capable man was David Lips- 
comb, although unlike most Southerners, he 
had an abrupt, almost brusque manner. He 
was in better financial condition than most 
of his neighbors, having saved a good deal of 
cotton on an estate he owned in the South, 
which happened to be apart from the track of 
army devastation ; judicious management 
had done the rest for him, so that he was 
really a man of means still. He had the rep- 
utation, however, of being a hard-natured 
and close-fisted fellow, practical in the ex- 
treme, and devoid of inconvenient sentiment. 
Alison respected his straight-forward integ- 



18 From Dixie. 

rity, and liked him from habit and associa- 
tion. Just now she was grateful to him for 
the help he had given her in business mat- 
ters, as well. Her greeting was, therefore, 
unusually, cordial. 

''Shall we go in," she suggested; ''or do 
you prefer remaining out here ? I know 
how you like sitting outside generally." 

" It's pleasant here," Mr. Lipscomb de- 
clared, and deposited his long frame upon one 
of the porch benches. 

Alison seated herself, also, a little apart^ 
and made small talk ; to which her visitor 
gave not the slightest heed. 

After ten minutes, during which his gaze 
wandered appraisingly over his surroundings, 
Lipscomb turned to the lady abruptly : 

"It's a good place to live — this," he said. 
"It's a pity you've got to leave it." 

Alison winced. Her glance took in the 
gracious sweetness of every detail — the slope 
of the lawn, the swaying of the trees, gay 
bedight with autumn foliage, the pale beauty 
of late blooming flowers, the stately comfort 
of the old mansion. A wave of home-sick- 
ness, of love for it all ; of futile, passionate 
regret submerged her. She could only re- 
spond by an affirmative gesture. 



Alison Stewart. 19 

"It hurts to give it up, I reckon," her vis- 
itor proceeded, " it's a bad wrench, and all 
that. Women feel this sort of thing. They 
value homes and plenishing more than men 
do. To most men one house is the same as 
another ; but women are made different. 
Tell me is the wrench severe ?" 

He bent forward and looked at her. 

Again Alison had but a gesture for him. 
Her voice stuck in her throat. 

Lipscomb moved uneasily, and struck his 
boot with his riding whip. Her emotion dis- 
concerted him. He liked her to feel that 
way ; but wished she would be sensible in 
the exhibition of it. He had something to 
say to her, and wanted to put it sensibly, and 
to have it so received. 

''What will your aunt do ? " he questioned, 
alluding to an invalid maiden lady who had 
always made her home at Hovendon. 

'' She will remain with me — that is, not 
just at first, but as soon as I can make a home 
for us," Alison explained. '' She will go to 
cousin John's for a visit until I can see about 
rooms. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped just 
at first. Cousin Selena and auntie never got 
on, and I fear auntie will be very uncomfort- 



20 From Dixie. 

able. She's brave about it, poor dear ; slie 
knows I shall take her away the moment it 
becomes possible." 

^'Has she nothing of her own ?" 

Alison shook her head. 

" What she had was invested in tobacco 
during the w^ar and stored in Richmond. It 
would have realized handsomely for her, but 
for the burning of the town at the evacuation. 
She lost everything." 

'' She'll be a great care to you ? " 

Alison smiled. ^' I'm very fond of her," 
she said, " and even if I were not, my father 
invested that money of h^r's that was lost. 
Auntie has a claim on me, even outside of 
affection." 

Lipscomb worried with his whip. 

" See here, Alison," he said suddenly, 
' ' you're used to this place and fond of it ; 
it's natural you should feel cut up about leav- 
ing. Why don't you stay ? You can if you 
like. Your aunt will be better satisfied to 
stay, and she's old and ought to be consid- 
ered. The place can be held by one man as 
well as another. I'll hold it if you like." 

Alison stared at him. AVhat possible con- 
nection could there be between his purchase 



Aliso7i Stewart. 21 
of Hovendon and her remaining, unless . 



She beamed on him suddenly, her cheeks 
dimpling. It was a foolish plan, but very 
kind. How people misjudged him ! 

''You would buy this plantation and let 
me rent from you ? " she questioned, smiling. 
" That's good of you, David, but it isn't wise. 
I know nothing whatever of farming, and 
would make an unsatisfactory tenant." 

Lipscomb set her straight at once. 

" You're off the track," he explained, has- 
tily, " I don't want a farmer. I can attend to 
all that myself — its man's work anyhow. 
What I mean is that I'll buy Hovendon for 
my wife." 

^^Your ! What?" 

"My wife! You! Don't you catch on? 
I want you to marry me and keep on living 
here ; or you can go away for a little while, 
if you prefer it, and then come back. It's a 
good plan all around ; and your aunt can 
live with us. Think it over, Alison. I'm 
not a bad fellow to live with." 

Alison drew back, a sudden and discourte- 
ous desire to laugh taking possession of her. 
Did ever lover make his advances in so un- 
lover-like a fashion before, she wondered. 



22 From Dixie. 

Then she realized that he was not a lover at 
all ; only a blundering, kindly friend, who 
was making a hideously awkward mistake, 
but making it with the best intentions. She 
was provoked, and at the same time touched 
by it. 

Meanwhile, her companion having gotten a 
start, talked on with volubility, like a man 
setting forth the business advantages likely 
to accrue from a specified combination. He 
wanted a wife and a home and could afford 
both ; he was tired of the discomforts of 
bachelor existence. He wanted her, more- 
over, for he had discovered her to be, in their 
late association, both sensible and practical. 
He knew her people and she knew his. It 
would be a first-rate arrangement, and every- 
body might be made comfortable. 

Alison hearkened quietly. There was no 
mention of the word love, no simulation, or 
travesty of the emotion. That would have 
disgusted her. This did not ; it simply sad- 
dened her, showing so low a standard of val- 
ues. Things specified were to be exchanged, 
even, for things understood, and all was to be 
fair and square within the law. Could she 
do it ? Could she buy Hovendon back at 



Alison Stewart. 23 

such a price ? Would the dead who had 
loved it counsel such a transaction ? Did 
honor, womanhood, and righteousness coun- 
tenance it ? There could be but one answer. 
The unspecified values loomed large before 
her, and she shuddered. It was impossible — 
this thing ; more, it w^ould be iniquitous. 
This man did not understand — was taking a 
surface view. He meant well, but was blun- 
dering over it. She must stop him from set- 
ting up tables for money changers in a tem- 
ple. 

With a few swift words she thanked him, 
in her aunt's name and her own, for his in- 
terest in their welfare — she could not put it 
otherwise — and she gave him full measure 
of gratitude for kind intentions. Then she 
showed him that his scheme was untenable. 

'^A woman may not, with honor, sell her 
birthright, even within the law," she said. 
" She must love a man nobly, unselfishly, 
truly, and he must so love her or their union 
is unsanctified. God gives us that one celes- 
tial thing — just that portion of His divine 
essence to glorify our lives with. And if we 
wilfully degrade it, make love the servant of 
utility, set our jewel of price in the skull of 



24 From Dixie. 

a toad, will we not deserve that evil things 
shall happen? Can we complain when 
wrong begets wrong? You do not truly wish 
this thing. You did not think earnestly 
about it." 

Lipscomb stared at her. Material things 
had supreme value in his eyes. Talk like 
this seemed foolishness to him. He had not 
expected it of so sensible a woman. He 
wanted her more than ever, but he did not 
in the least agree with her views. 

" I should have made love to you," he 
said, doubtfully, not knowing very well how 
to commence, now. 

" You should feel love for the woman you 
make your wife," she responded. " If you 
had made love to me, not feeling it, I'd have 
felt myself outraged; as the matter stands 
I'm "only distressed that you should have 
formed a low estimate of me — should have 
thought me a women capable of selling her- 
self ; for that is the unvarnished verity of a 
proposal such as yours." 

'^ It's nothing of the sort," he retorted, 
stung by her plain speaking; " 1 do love you. 
Only I didn't think you'd care for senti- 
mental talk." 



Alison Steiuart. 25 

" I don't/' she declared, '' unless it pre- 
sents a truth. I want to be loved, and so do 
you, if you'll stop and think about it, and so 
does everybody. God made us that way; 
and you do 7iot love me, or you would have 
understood and offered me your best for my 
best, instead of w^hich you enumerated mate- 
rial wares, like a huckster, and tried to secure 
my birthright with pottage. Values should 
be in kind — material things for material 
things, and for spiritual things those things 
which are spiritual. No other law can ope- 
rate." 

The man could not accept his failure. He 
was used to depending for success on money 
and tangible, marketable values. They had 
never failed him before, and he could scarcely 
credit that they would ultimately fail him 
now. Her opposition stirred him, and his 
nature began to warm a little. 

''It's a dear old place," he said, '' and life 
here must be happy." 

" It is a dear old place," she assented, " and 
life here would be bliss under certain condi- 
tions." 

''Not with me?" 



26 From Dixi 



ixie. 



" Not with any man I came to, simply be- 
cause of it. Hovendon isn't worth the price — 
my womanhood." 

He rose to go. 

''What will become of yon?" he ques- 
tioned. 

She looked up at him bravely, and ex- 
tended her hand. 

" I'm going to work," she said. ''A woman 
can always do that — her hands can keep her 
head, or vice versa, if there's any strength 
within her. My aunt will be with me and 
we shall get on." 

" My plan is best," persistently. 

She shook her head. 

" You are. depreciating marriage," he 
frowned. 

''Not so," she flashed back. "You did 
that. I am restoring a sanctuary." 

He held her hand uncertainly an instant, 
then his closed strongly over it; a new light 
dawned in his eyes. 

" I do love you, Alison — love you better 
than you know." 

Her response was instant: "Thank you 
for saying that," she said. "It rehabilitates 
us both; but it is impossible for me to be 



'Alison Stewart. 27 

your wife. My heart holds only friendship 
for you." 

The next four years for Alison were years 
of toil and frequently of disappointment and 
anxiety. She rented a small house in a 
neighboring village, fitted it up with furni- 
ture reserved from Hovendon, and brought 
her aunt home to live with her. She man- 
aged economically, doing a large part of the 
work herself, so that their one servant might 
have more leisure to wait upon her aunt, for, 
as time went on, old Miss Stewart became 
almost helpless. Through the exertions of 
friends, notably those of David Lipscomb, 
who got himself appointed school commis- 
sioner on purpose, Alison had obtained the 
public school of the county and was able to 
hold it. This gave a certain, though small, 
income for part of the year at least, and she 
took in sewing, and even essayed to write a 
little, after the manner of women thrown on 
their own resources. She had no large suc- 
cesses, and the struggle was continuous; but 
she got on fairly well, and the fact that her 
youth was slipping from her in toil troubled 
her but little. She kept up her courage and 



28 From Dixie. 

cheerfulness, keeping her home and her face 
bright, no matter how somber the outlook. 
It would '^ count in the aggregate somewhere," 
she thought, and no Stewart had ever shown 
cowardice save Dougal — poor Dougal! 

The hardest thing to endure was the 
homesickness which overwhelmed her at 
times — the longing for earth, sky and water 
in the combination which had gladdened her 
childhood and youth. She would wake up 
at night with the sound in her ears of the two 
rivers, which bounded her old home, rushing, 
lover-like, to their union ; or the surging of the 
wind through the branches of the old oaks and 
horse chestnuts. The scent of the old gar- 
den flowers would haunt her also, the clove 
pinks, the calycanthus, the honeysuckle, 
roses, and sweet star jessamine. Others are 
not so constituted that one spot of earth is 
the only home the w^orld contains for them, 
but she was. She pictured Hovendon over 
and over to herself in all the phases of its 
yearly round — pictured it in the morning 
freshness of spring-time, with the sun just 
peeping above the mountains, and the sweet 
dewy breath of the germinating earth stirring 
softly the ambient atmosphere — pictured it 



Alison Stewart. 29 

with the noon-tide heat of mid-summer upon 
it when the whole universe seemed wrapped 
in siesta ; with the autumnal beauty on the 
hills, after a hard frost when the brown earth 
was frothed up in places until it resembled 
dirty river foam, when the corn-crakes called 
from the riverside and the partridge whistled 
in the stubble fields. And again she would 
picture it under a winter moon with the tree 
limbs ice-jeweled and glittering, and the 
world a wide white mystery of snow and 
silence. 

All these thoughts and longings she kept 
to herself, knowing how futile fretting was, 
and how dark it would make life for the in- 
valid. But she hearkened avidly to intelli- 
gence about her old home, and sometimes 
wished that David Lipscomb would forget 
the past and come and discuss with her his 
plans for Hovendon. He owned the place 
and lived at it, having bought it from the 
mortgagee immediately after their interview. 
She liked knowing that a friend's feet trod 
the old rooms, a friend's life set itself to the 
old surroundings. Whenever she met Lips- 
comb she went out of her way to be cordial, 
but he responded shyly, always avoiding the 



30 From Dixie. 

subject of Hovendon, and holding himself 
aloof. It grieved her. 

One day she accidentally heard that Lips- 
comb was ill. This troubled her and she 
wrote several notes of inquiry, to which no 
answers were returned. Later she knew that 
hope had been abandoned, and then that he 
had entered into rest. 

Directly on the heels of this intelligence 
came a note from Lipscomb's lawyer notify- 
ing her of the time set for the funeral, and 
enclosing a sealed envelope which, he ex- 
plained, he had been directed to place in her 
hands immediately after the death of his 
client. 

Alison locked herself into her own room 
while she examined this enclosure. 

It was not a letter, nor even a message. 
It w^as a copy of what seemed a clause from 
a will, and was in the dead man's hand- 
writing. It briefly set forth that the testator 
did " will and bequeath to Alison Stewart the 
plantation called Hovendon — hereinafter de- 
scribed ; formerly the heritage of her family, 
and by testator purchased, to have and to 
hold, with all stock, tools, machinery and 
household stuff thereunto pertaining, for her 



Alison Steiuart. 31 

own use and behoof, in fee simple, for all 
time, provided the said Alison Stewart should 
abstain from attending the testator's funeral, 
and from expressing any interest in his death 
whatever." 

Alison's first emotion was bewilderment. 
That a man should deliberately set a reward 
on disrespect to himself was a thing most as- 
tonishing ; a freak of posthumous eccen- 
tricity entirely inexplicable. Then what a 
position for her ! If she should go to this 
funeral she would appear to herself an inter- 
loper, pushing forward to a place from which 
she had been warned — more, from which she 
had been offered payment to absent herself. 

Tears of anger and mortification sprang 
to her eyes. How could he do so cruel a 
thing ? How dared he fix for her so low a 
standard ? It was all of a piece with that 
other offer. He thought sentiment, friend- 
ship, conduct, everything had a price. It 
was horrible ! Years before he had offered 
her Hovendon as a bribe to come to him. 
Now he offered her Hovendom as a bribe to 
stay away. She would show him that she 
was not a woman who could be bought. In the 
face of the whole world she would show him. 



32 From Dixie. 

Then she wept bitterly, because of the 
friend he had been to her, because of his 
cruel misjudgment, and because of the look 
which had dawned in his eyes that moment 
in which he declared that he loved her bet- 
ter than she knew. 

What would be the world's comment when 
this singular document should be made pub- 
lic did not trouble her. She was an un- 
sophisticated woman, and her mind grasped 
and busied itself only with their relative 
positions to each other — his and hers. What 
might be the popular verdict on the affair, 
for the time, lay outside her consciousness. 
The dead man had intimated a desire to be 
buried in the Stewart burial lot, which at the 
sale of the estate Alison had reserved. When 
applied to for permission, she made no ob. 
jection. This man had hurt her sorely, had 
misjudged her even in death; but she felt 
no animosity towards him, nor was she un- 
willing that he should rest among her loved 
ones. This wish of his so to rest appeared 
to give the lie to premeditated unkindness. 
This bequest was a blunder, like that other, 
only worse. He did not understand; for 
from such as he the arcana of things is hid- 



Alison Steiuart. 33 

den. Then she put aside judgment, accord- 
ing to her wont, and grieved for her old 
friend sincerely. 

It was better so. 

Before the funeral services were com- 
menced, standing beside the coffin in the old 
hall, Alison glanced about, and was touched 
to see how unchanged it was; how every 
mark of Stewart occupancy had been pre- 
served. No new pictures supplied the places 
of those she herself had removed; the furni- 
ture and ornaments were as she had left 
them; even a riding whip and cap of her 
own, forgotten in the move, hung still on the 
hat-rack. A lump rose in her throat and 
remained there. And when, later, she be- 
held Dougal's old horse grazing peacefully 
on the lawn, the tears gathered so thick and 
fast that she could scarcely see the pall- 
bearers moving just in front of her with 
their burden. 

When the services had been completed, 
the lawyer, coming to Alison's side, requested 
the sympathetic crowd of friends and neigh- 
bors to return to the house. It was Lips- 
comb's wish that his will should be read im- 
mediately, he explained, and in their pres- 



S4 From Dixie. 

ence. Then he gave Alison his arm, and the 
procession, greatly marveling, all trooped 
back to the house. They marveled more 
when Lawyer Corbet, keeping Alison still be- 
side him, unfolded the document in question 
and made public its contents. 

The will was concise, more so than is cus- 
tomary, but perfectly correct and legal. After 
the disposition of a few legacies, the residue 
of the estate, including Hovendon, was enu- 
merated and summed up, making a property 
of considerable importance. And this pro- 
perty, in entirety and without reservation, 
was bequeathed to Alison Stewart and her 
heirs forever. His reason for the bequest 
the testator also made plain in one pithy sen- 
tence. ''Unlike most people I know," he de- 
clared, " Miss Stewart subordinates money 
always to things that are higher, making it 
the servant, instead of the master; there- 
fore, she seems to me a fit person to be trusted 
with the administration of money, and in 
giving her mine I feel assured she will do 
with it the good which I might have done." 

But that which Alison valued most was a 
folded slip of paper endorsed ''A message to 
be given Miss Stewart after the reading of 



Alison Stewart. 35 

my will." She took it away with her and 
opened it alone. 

There was but a sentence, written with a 
hand that showed pain and exhaustion. It 
said: ^' Dear, forgive me the final test! Some 
twist in my nature forces me to it, although 
I knoic you will be true to yourself and your 
ideals. Forgive me! and in token of pardon 
come back to the home you love, accepting 
it as a gift of affection and admiration from 
the man who has always — always — loved you 
better than you knew." 

M. G. McClelland. 



SIDNEY LANIER 



TO LUCIE. 

There is a little word, they say, 

A little word, 
Which, like the murmur of some cooing bird, 

Will nestle in thy heart of hearts, 
Certes, some day. 

I know not whether I shall speak 

This word to thee; 
Love send that he who utters it, 

Fair child, Lucie, 
Be never blind, like Cupidon, 

Nor false, nor weak. 

For some of us are true as steel, 

As he need be 
Who reads the meaning of this word to thee, 

And prays its echo in thy heart, Lucie, 

To hold him leal. 

Sidney Lanier. 

St. Valentine' 8 Day, 1880. 



SIDNEY LANIER. 

Sidney Lanier, the eldest son of Robert 
and Mary Lanier, was born in Macon, Geor- 
gia, February 3d, 1842. His ancestors on the 
father's side were Huguenot refugees; his 
mother was a descendant of the Andersons 
of Virginia, a family of Scottish lineage. He 
entered, at an early age, Oglethorpe College 
in his native State — an institution not now 
in existence — where he took his degree with 
the highest honor. 

At the outbreak of the late war, when he 
was but nineteen years of age, he enlisted in 
the Georgia Battalion, which afterwards 
formed a part of the Army of Northern Vir- 
ginia. During his service here, as one of his 
fellow-soldiers writes me, " he exhibited the 
courage, patient endurance, and all the other 
high qualities of the martial spirit; steady 
adherence to discipline, as well as the bright 
insouciance characteristic of the American 
citizen-soldier." 



Sidney Lanier. 41 

His thirst for knowledge was not checked 
by the hardships and privations of a soldier's 
life in the field. In camp, my informant tells 
me, he devoted much of his leisure time to 
study, and obtained a useful knowledge of the 
German language by the aid of pocket gram- 
mars and small collections of poetry which 
he translated. By similar study he also ob- 
tained a good knowledge of French, which he 
not only read Avith ease, but spoke almost 
with fluency. '^ For all knowledge," m.y in- 
formant continues, " he had an unappeasable 
hunger ; in all odd moments, with every 
chance acquaintance, gaining something." 
During all his campaign life his beloved flute 
accompanied him, though sometimes he had 
to give away part of his slender ration that 
it might find room in his haversack; and its 
music cheered many a w^eary hour for him- 
self and his comrades. 

In 1862 he was transferred from the infan- 
try to the mounted signal corps; and in 1864 
was appointed signal officer on the steamer 
Annie. Shortly after his appointment this 
steamer was captured off Wilmington by a 
Federal blockader. When the capture was 
seen to be inevitable, the commander of the 



42 From Dixie. 

steamer directed him to distribute a small 
amount of treasure on board among the 
officers and men. This he did with impar- 
tiality to all save himself. In some way one 
old sailor had been overlooked in the distri- 
bution, and Mr. Lanier at once divided his 
own small share with him. 

Some of the officers of the steamer, who 
were English, wished him to pass himself off 
as an Englishman to avoid imprisonment; 
but his courageous and truthful nature re- 
jected all falsehood and deception, even in 
war. He frankly avowed his nationality and 
rank, and was sent as a prisoner to Point 
Lookout, where he remained in confinement 
until the end of the war. Some of his fellow 
prisoners still speak with feeling of the un- 
varying constancy and cheerfulness with 
which he bore the many trials and hardships 
of a prisoner's lot, which told with peculiar 
severity upon a constitution naturally deli- 
cate; and it was at this time that were sown 
the seeds of that disease which was never 
thenceforth to quit its hold upon him. 

After the restoration of peace he studied 
the law and became a partner in the firm of 
Lanier & Anderson, at Macon, his seniors 



Sidney Lanier. 43 

being his father and his maternal uncle. In 
December, 1867, he married Miss Mary Day, 
of Macon. 

The duties of his profession, after awhile, 
proved too arduous for him; and the occur- 
rence, more than once, of a hemorrhage from 
the lungs, after the exertion of pleading, 
warned him that he could only continue the 
practice at the risk of his life. 

His health, indeed, became so seriously 
impaired that his medical advisers considered 
a change of climate absolutely necessary, and 
sent him, in 1872, to San Antonio, Texas, 
where he remained for several months. Of 
this strange old town, its history, and his ex- 
periences in it, he gave a graphic description 
in the pages of a periodical then published 
in Baltimore. 

His tastes and studies had long inclined 
him to literature, and many contributions 
from his pen had appeared in various jour- 
nals, and been received with favor. It now 
seemed as if he were forced by absolute ne- 
cessity into the path of his predilection. He 
saw the desirableness of fixing his residence 
in some important centre of intellectual activ- 
ity, and thought of making New York his 



44 From Dixie. 

home. On his way to that city, in Septem- 
ber, 1873, he stopped for awhile in Baltimore, 
and during this stay the director of the Pea- 
body Orchestra, hearing at the house of a 
friend, Mr. Lanier's performance on the flute, 
was so struck by the grace and delicacy of 
the execution, as well as by the beauty of the 
composition, which was original, that he of- 
fered him the position of first flute in the 
orchestra. To this a moderate salary was 
attached, and as the duties allowed him ample 
time for other work, he accepted the offer and 
retained the position for three seasons, during 
which time he wrote, for the periodical press, 
many articles and poems, which showed a 
steady increase of literary power. 

During this period appeared his remarka- 
ble poem '' Corn," which first won him a 
more extended recognition, and showed to 
those who had scarcely heard his name that 
a poet of no ordinary gifts was challenging a 
hearing. This poem, which is like a piece of 
rarest jewel-work — full of subtle delicacies 
and tendernesses of thought, bright flashes of 
the most radiant fancy, passionate sympathy 
with Nature, and strange audacious felicities 
of expression — while it charms us with its 



Sidney Lanier. 45 

beauty, is not the less impressive for the les- 
son it conve3^s — its eloquent protest against 
the lower tendencies of modern life, in its 
pursuit of mere material things shutting its 
eyes to the wonders and beauties around it, 
and closing its ears to the soft admonitions 
and gentle solicitations that follow it every- 
where. Indeed, scarce any of his work shows 
the mere play of fancy without suggestions 
of deeper purpose. Always 

" the root of some grave thought is understruck 

so rightly 
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers 
above." 

In his '' Symphony," which, though less 
likely to be popular, is perhaps even a nobler 
poem than '' Corn," this purpose is still more 
clearly expressed in the poetic interpretation 
of the voices of the various instruments as 
from the pure heaven of music they plead 
with the human heart. 

In the spring of 1875 he spent some 
months in Florida, traveling and collecting 
the materials of a bright little book which 
he afterwards published. 

The managers of the Centennial Exhibi- 
tion of 1876, having included among the fea- 



46 From Di 



xie. 



tures of the opening ceremonies, a hymn and 
an ode, applied to Mr. Whittier, a Northern 
poet, for the former, and for the latter to Mr. 
Lanier as a poet of the South. 

His disease, unhappily, still made progress; 
and the occurrence of an abscess in the lungs 
made a second trip to Florida advisable. 
Several months spent in the soft climate of 
Tampa brought at least some improvement, 
and enabled him to continue his literary 
work. 

In the winter of 1879-80 he delivered a 
course of lectures on " English verse, espe- 
cially Shakespeare's," in The Johns Hopkins 
University, and those who attended them 
must have been struck with the thorough- 
ness with which he laid the foundations of 
his work, no less than with his affluent and 
happy illustrations of the principles laid 
down. In fact, he was compelled, as an in- 
troduction to his treatment, to build up from 
the ground a system of English prosody. 
The views here enounced, he afterwards ex- 
pounded and developed into his Science of 
English Verse, of which I may say — and it is 
a matter to which I have given some study — 
that this work contains the only clear and 



Sidney Lanier. 47 

rational system of English prosody that I 
have ever met ; those usually appended to 
grammatical treatises being mere confusions 
of confusions. 

Our friend had long noted with regret a 
serious insufficiency in the better juvenile 
literature of our time. Books written nowa- 
days for the improvement of the young for 
the most part fall into two categories, which 
we may call the '' goody-goody" and the 
"rough-and-ready." Or, to speak less flip- 
pantly, those that aim at cultivating the 
spiritual and moral faculties are apt to deli- 
quesce into watery sentimentality, while 
those that would strengthen the practical 
side of character lack elevation and nobility. 
To supply the want here, he prepared two 
books for boys, the Froissart and King Arthur, 
the one a book of fact, giving the brightest 
side of real chivalry in history; the other of 
fiction, giving the noblest and purest ideal of 
chivalry in legend. It has become somewhat 
the fashion of late to sneer at the word 
" chivalry," especially among those who have 
the most imperfect conception of its meaning. 
But as our friend defined it: ''To speak the 
very truth; to perform a promise to the utter- 



48 From Di 



xie. 



most; to reverence woman; to maintain right 
and honesty; to help the weak; to treat high 
and low with courtesy; to he constant to one 
love; to be fair to a bitter foe; to despise 
luxury; to preserve simplicity, modesty, and 
gentleness in heart and bearing" — to which 
I may add, to be always ready to accept and 
face the consequences of our actions — tliis 
does not seem to me a view of life and its du- 
ties which any society should plume itself on 
having outgrown. Or, if it be indeed obso- 
lete, let it at least linger yet a while to brighten 
the fairy-land of childhood. 

In the winter of 1880-'81 he delivered a 
course of public lectures in the University 
on English literature, and in especial the 
leading works of fiction and romance. His 
friends greatly feared that the exertion would 
be too hard a task for one in his weak condi- 
tion ; but he insisted upon fulfilling his engage- 
ments. In the following spring his malady 
had made such alarming progress that he 
determined, as a last resort, to try open-air 
life in a milder climate, and for this purpose 
went to the hilly country near Asheville, 
North Carolina. Resolute to work while life 
was in him, he took with him not only his 



Sidney Lanier. 49 

incomplete manuscripts, but also various in- 
struments of ph3^sical research, that he might, 
if possible, win something for knowledge out 
of the hours thus reprieved from death. But 
the end was too near at hand, and not only 
was all work presently impossible for him, 
but he had to be conveyed to the village of 
Lynn to die. Here every care was bestowed 
on him, and those among whom he had come 
as a stranger tended him as a friend; while 
his devoted wife ministered to his wants and 
soothed his last hours with that constant 
affection that had been the crowning blessing 
of his life. 

Disconnected as it seems, one thread of 
purpose runs through all his work. This 
thread is found in his fervid love for his 
fellow-men, and his never-ceasing endeavors 
to kindle an enthusiasm for beauty, purity, 
nobility of life, which he held it the poet's 
first duty to teach and to exemplify. As he 
himself has written of a poet: 

" His song was only a living aloud: 
His work was a singing with his hand." 

No discouragements, no disappointments, 
no sufferings of body, no anxiety of mind, 
4 



50 From Dixie. 

could abate his ardor of learning; and even 
in the last months of his life he took up new 
and difficult studies, and worked at them as 
long as he had the power. He could not bear 
to leave unaccomplished anything he had un- 
dertaken; and when really dying, still worked 
on, that he might not depart with a single 
promise unfulfilled. 

He had a strong wish to live; not from a 
fear of death, but from his passionate desire 
to accomplish more perfectly the task to 
which his life was dedicated. 

To quote the words of one who was very 
near to him: "I cannot express the w^onder 
and beauty of the reconciliation of his in- 
domitable human will and vivid personality 
with an absolute trust in God — a trust which 
neither required nor wished for explanation 
of his dearest longings." 

Despite manifold adversity, frequent dis- 
appointment, and occasional injustice — des- 
pite much that would have hardened or 
embittered a spirit of less sweet composure, 
no trace of cynicism, of bitterness, or even 
repining, could be found in his whole work 
or his whole life. He accepted his lot, not 
with resignation merely, but with sunny 



Sidney Lanier. 51 

cheerfulness. The armor of fortitude that lie 
had addressed, flashed brightness all around. 
He wrought faithfully throughout his short 
day, and far into the deepening twilight. He 
has left behind him enough to show what he 
might have done, and an undying memory 
in the hearts of all who knew him, for all 
who knew him may call themselves his 
friends. 

May we not apply to him, in a nobler 
sense, words written of one who died with 
high purposes unfulfilled — 

Literarum quaesivit gloriam : Videt Dei. 

William Hand Browne. 



SOLITUDE. 

Thou wast to me what to the changing year 
Its seasons are — a joy forever new; 
What to the night its stars, its heavenly 
dew, 

Its silence: what to dawn its lark-song clear; 

To noon, its light — its fleckless atmosphere. 
Where ocean and the overbending blue 
In passionate communion, hue for hue, 

As one in Love's circumference appear. 

0, brimming heart, with tears for utterance, 
Alike of joy and sorrow! lift thine eyes 
And sphere the desolation. Love is flown; 

And in the desert's widening expanse. 
Grim silence, like a sepulchre of stone. 
Stands charneling a soul's funereal sighs. 

John B. Tabb. 



THE INDIAN OF SAN SALVADOR. 

What time the countless arrow-heads of lio-ht 
Keen twinkled, on the bended heavens 

back-drawn, 
With deadly aim, at signal of the dawn. 
To slay the slumbering, dusky warrior, night — 
I dreamed a dream. And, lo! three spirits 
white 
As mist that gathers when the rain is gone, 
Came w^alking o'er the waters, whereupon 
The very waves seemed quivering with 
affright. 

I woke, and heard, while yet the vision 
stayed, 
A prophecy: " Behold the coming race 
Before whose feet the forest kings shall fall 
Prostrate; and ye, like twilight shadows tall, 

That w^ither at the sun's uplifted face, 
Shall pass in silence to a deeper shade." 

John B. Tabb. 



MY SOUL— SHE HATH GREAT 
CARE FOR ME. 



A FANTASIE. 



Softer the air doth blow by far, 
Than here on the hill it blew last night. 
No space in the sky for a single star; 
Only the moon and the clouds at war, 
Only the lonely wind and I, 
Are abroad on the fields, in the blurred gray 
light. 

We two — we alone — and afield we meet. 

Alone — and afield, we pass and greet, 

With a sigh, greets the wind, and I, with a 

sigh; 
And wherefore, pray, should we pass by. 
Meet, and not greet, like the friends we are. 

Think not we are not understood. 
That language in all lands holds good. 



My Soul — She hath Great Care for Me. 55 

A tear for the eye, a sigh for the heart, 
Though far as the moon from the earth apart. 
No creature born of hmcl or sky. 
Need wait for words, nor wait for art. 
To meet and greet, and be well-known, 
To meet and greet in the fields alone. 

There is no bourne beyond the reach 
Of sorrow; no soul lives and bides 
So far but she will visit each; 
Through every fortress wall she glides, 
In every creature's life she hides. 
There is not need that art should teach. 
For sorrow knoweth sorrow's speech. 

The wind flies on his rustling path; 
Now from the naked wood he calls. 
So one might say, Hark! how the wrath 
Of winter shakes the forest walls. 

But all things are of kin, the sere. 
The green, the living and the dead. 
The young, the old; no more are they 
Apart than are the night and day. 



56 From Dixie. 

And hearking, now, I do but hear, 
My soul's cry in that sound of dread. 

What, then, shall I, not walk at ease 
On this crisp grass and breathe this air, 
And hear my heart beat in the trees. 
And with fair fancies please my mind, 
The while my spirit in despair, 
Goes yonder — moaning with the wind ? 

Why should I not be free from care 
A little space? Her way she knows. 
There is no flight she will not dare: 
Far with the flying wind she goes, 
Swift leaping through the branches bare. 
My thoughts, ye must not follow there! 
My soul, she will not let me rest, 
There is but little time to spare, 
She will return, that wretched guest, 
Stay ye, and build me, whiles ye dare, 
Some cooling comfort in my breast. 

My soul — she takes no care for me. 
She makes for me no end of woes, 



3Iy Soul — She hath Great Care for Me. 57 

No reason and no fears hath she, 
She knows not mercy nor repose. 

Wlien so at rest I fain woukl be, 

Safe and content with friends to hear 

Their wholesome chat, or make me cheer 

With wine in some brave company. 

Then, whether winds blow Sonth or North, 

Or whether I would choose to go, 

She will not spare, but drags me forth, 

Nor asks if I would have it so. 

She cares not if the skies be clear, 

Or if the clouds be hanging low. 

Nor if the chilly world be drear 

With wintry rains, or white with snow; 

It matters not the storm might blow 

The birds from their night perch, but she 

Holds on her way. Come weal or woe 

She hales me to this upland lea. 

And hence through wood and field to show 

The scenes she thinks I ought to see. 

And hint of dreams that I should know. 

Hist! yonder by the locust tree 

I see her pacing to and fro. 



58 From Dixie. 

I dream of happy da3^s to be, 
And yet I would not care to throw 
The burthen off and be set free. 
3l7j soul — she hath great care for me. 

Robert Burns Wilson. 



SONG. 

Sing the snow of winter, 
And sing the summer green. 
More w^hite and fresh she is, 
Than either one, I ween. 
More dainty than the summer, 
More fair than winter snow. 
And lighter is her foot-fall 
Than the lightest winds that blow. 

Then sing heigh-ho! 

The lass that I love so. 

The floAvers were her God-dames: 
On the day that she was named 
The blue-bells gave those eyes to her, 
By which the heavens are shamed. 
Her hair was dowered by marigolds, 
Her lips by pimpernels, 
And one and all did in her breath 
Unite their faery spells. 

Then sing heigh-ho! 

The lass that loves me so. 

Amelie Rives, 



PENDLETON NEIL OF ROSALIA. 



PENDLETON NEIL OF ROSALIA. 

Colonel Pendleton Neil was now a man of 
seventy-two, tall, spare, always clean-shaven 
and, owing to a limp, always walked with a 
cane. His title of ''Colonel" was compli- 
mentary, as he had never been in battle. 

"Before tlie war" he had possessed a 
moderate fortune, but his loyalty to the Con- 
federacy induced him to invest all he had in 
Confederate bonds. The last of his race, he 
now lived alone on his plantation "Rosalia," 
situated on James River, in one of the upper 
counties of Virginia. 

Colonel Neil w^as a gentleman of retiring 
disposition, modest, humble-minded and 
courteous. In the days of his prosperity he 
had scarcely even called himself a farmer, for 
his lameness and reading habit had com- 
bined to give him a disinclination for the 
active farmer's pursuits, while fortune had 
enabled him to leave such things to a brother 
and an overseer. The brother fell at Spotsyl- 
vania; in short the Colonel had survived all 
his nearest relatives. The only office he had 
held in his county was one that all the 



64 From Dixie. 

changes of war could not take from him, the 
office of vestryman in his church. 

Plainly, then. Colonel Neil could not be 
accepted as a typical Virginia planter. There 
had never been upon his place any one as 
ignorant as he of farming; nor had he ever 
been considered the ablest man in his county. 
He had, indeed, been a great lover of books, 
but they were simply the companions of a 
lame man, to whom' active life was painful. 
In harmony with his contemplative habit of 
mind, was a love of fishing, but his was 
scarcely the sportsman's way. He had 
always found pleasure in spending hours 
upon the river bank watching his row of five 
or six fishing rods. 

Thus the dawn of that memorable period 
in Virginia known as the Reconstruction 
Era, found Pendleton Neil less able to cope 
with its adversities than most of his neigh- 
bors. And yet, when the whites of that 
county decided to attempt to wrest it from 
carpet-bag rule, they selected him as the 
strongest candidate for the position of county 
clerk. They argued that his spotless char- 
acter, his gentleness, his record as a kind 
master of his former slaves, would secure the 



Pendleton Neil of IkOsalia. 65 

negro vote. They were mistaken. He was 
defeated by a carpet-bagger. 

The end of the campaign left him reduced 
to real poverty, though his neighbors scarcely 
realized the extent of his needs. 

We all recall his appearance, his placid face, 
his unvarying response, ''I thank you; I 
thank you," when he was addressed by friend 
and neighbor. His limp made the bow 
which invariably accompanied this speech 
seem very low and noticeable. Tliose who 
had known him long could never recall the 
time he had laughed, but they had often re- 
marked his smile, kindly, and, when in a 
group of men, so quiet by contrast as to con- 
vey the impression that it was sad. His was 
a gentle disposition of that kind stilled by 
long and unexcited pursuit of such pleasure 
as reflective reading, such farming as enabled 
liim to take a bird's-eye view of his fields from 
the piazza in the morning, and for the pros- 
pect to reverently thank God, and courteously 
thank the overseer at night. His estate was 
now mortgaged. 'Here and there were 
patches of corn worked by some of his former 
slaves on shares, but such shares as reached 
him did not pay his store-bill. George Israel, 
5 



66 From Dixie. 

an old one-armed negro, his former slave, 
was the Colonel's principal assistant. This 
aged darkey had, through superstitious awe of 
the carpet-bagger's mandate, voted against 
his old master, but he was ready to do the 
Colonel's bidding in all except politics. 

The Colonel, on this particular day, had 
just returned from his visit to the country 
store, where he had been to pay his bill. He 
had been so accustomed to having his estate 
run itself that the idea of personal need had 
been slow in impressing him. As he stood 
in his porch now and looked over fields yel- 
low with broomstraw, out of which was reared 
the tottering remnant of the sorghum-mill, 
marked by the straggling stems of sassafras 
bushes and the stunted pokeberry and pine, 
and noted everywhere a barren waste where 
wheat and corn had once waved, the scene as, 
it used to be, rose before him. He could re- 
call it as it had looked, just at this sunset 
hour as he shaded his eyes with his hand, for 
it was then that the dazzling beams were 
flung with blinding directness beneath the 
eaves of the veranda. He could see in his 
mind the procession of hands returning to 
quarters after the day's work, Creorge Israel 



Pendleton Neil of Bosalia. 07 

always in the lead. He could hear their 
laughs, and he could remember that special 
evening when George, espying his figure in 
the porch, had said in a voice of jolly com- 
mand, " Boys, dar Marse Pen ; les cdl march 
up dar an pay our respects, case dis he wedd'n 
day." ("The rarscle had somehow remem- 
bered that was the day," thought the Colonel, 
with a smile. ) And he recalled how they came 
in column, some bearing hoes, some trace- 
chains, some baskets, and how they smiled 
at him and saluted him with " Good eve'n, 
Marse Pen." ("The rarscles ; they knew 
how much it pleased me," thought the Col- 
onel, as he smiled again at the recollection.) 
It had touched him so much that he had said : 
" Boys, I thank you; I thank you." And, 
seeing that it pleased him, they had after 
that dropped into the habit of coming by each 
evening and bowing to him, with a cheery 
and respectful " Good even', Marse Pen." 
He could remember the sincere good-will 
shining in their eyes whenever they went 
through that evening ceremony, commanded 
by the slave and obeyed by the master, ever 
afterwards, and pleasing to both. And now 
they were all gone save George and Kastus, 



68 From Dixie. 

and George's one daughter. " Faithful 
George ! " muttered the Colonel, " and Ras- 
tus — who began so badly. But I can blame 
none of those my slaves. I advised them to 
go. I told them it would be to their advarn- 
tage to go, because I knew I could do nothing 
more for them now." 

As these glimpses of old times came be- 
fore him this autumn evening he bowed his 
head and said, as if affirmatively to some ut- 
terance he had- just heard: "Yes, we are 
drifting." Then he entered his house ; but 
he had taken in the present situation. He 
began to think over resources, and he came 
to the conclusion that as he had nothing in 
sight he had no right to incur further finan- 
cial obligations. So the Neil bills-of-fare 
were now such as the Colonel's slaves would 
have grumbled at in the old days. 

He had not long before asserted that he 
found much pleasure, and some advarntage, 
in cultivating his geyard'n. Indeed, since 
that remark, he had applied himself with 
greater industry, and had extended his till- 
ing operations to farming. 

The Colonel now made a careful calculation 
of the returns he would have from his crops, 



Pendlcto)! Neil of Bomlia. 69 

pigs, and chickens, and — he laughed here, in 
a knowing way to himself, as his face beamed 
almost cunningly with his inward satisfaction 
over this last eminently practical and seem- 
ingly insignificant, though at the same time 
bold, bit of business enterprise of his — and 
ha ! ha ! lightwood ! A matter, he thought, 
most people would pars by, and yet he anti- 
cipated a handsome revenue — cash revenue 
from the sale of lightwood. He had heard 
that prices in Richmond were as much as 
fifty cents a bundle ; but, for the sake of ar- 
gument, he Avould cut that figure down. He 
would say twenty-five cents a bundle. He 
thought, with more and more satisfaction, of 
the rapidly growing number of bundles piled 
up in his smoke-house. He would wait until 
he gathered a boat-load. Here was cash — 
so much cash in your hand, sir. The Colonel 
almost feared to acknowledge how large the 
pile already was, and so he went about in his 
w^oods, axe in hand, splitting pine-knots or 
cutting rich faggots from the heart of grow- 
ing trees. 

" I am not kyarst down by the outlook 
yet," he thought with much gratitude, as he 
requested such darkies as he met to be sure 



70 From Dixie . 

to hail the next hatteau on the river, and in- 
form the captain to stop at Rosalia landing 
for a load of lightwood. Two days after 
that, as the Colonel went to his smoke-house, 
he saw^ that the hasp had been prized out, 
and the entire stock of lightwood was gone. 
For a moment he w\as paralyzed at this theft. 
He returned to his library and thought a 
while. Later in the day he requested such 
darkies as he met to tell the boatman that 
he would not require his services until the 
next trip. He kept the fact of the robbery 
to himself. It w^as not the loss of the fruit 
of so much labor that hurt him, but the 
thought that anyone thereabouts w^ould steal 
from him. 

The Colonel's farming operations were 
checked again for a time by an incident en- 
tirely unforeseen. He had watched with in- 
creasing pride his experiment of chicken- 
raising. Out of thirty-three only two had 
died — one being sickly from the time it w^as 
hatched — and one had been killed by a mink, 
before the hen-house was hedged around 
with such a net-w^ork of rock and tin fortifi- 
cations, that it became impregnable against 
future minks. The Colonel decided to send 



Pendleton Neil of Rosalia. 71 

eighteen of the finest chickens by boat to 
Richmond. 

" Not alone because I can use ready cash 
to some advarntage, but it is time to put my- 
self in connection with the — the provision 
marts," he said to himself. And yet, looking 
at the fine array of plump chickens, he dis- 
liked the idea of parting with any of them. 
They followed him about the yard, knew his 
presence so well that he had grown attached 
to them all. 

'' I will have to pick them out by charnce. 
I — I — hate to decide upon the fate of any 
one," he continued, regretfully, as he fed 
them a few days before their intended ship- 
ment. 

That very night the hen-house was broken 
open and seven chickens stolen. It was no 
mink this time ; the planks had been ripped 
from the rear. The Colonel now became in- 
dignant, and, though saying nothing pub- 
licly, he thought quite bitterly that some 
special enemy must be lurking in that vicin- 
ity. The next night four morQ chickens 
were stolen in the same way, the thief doubt- 
less inferring that boldness was the secret of 
success in chicken-stealing. Colonel Neil 



72 From Dixie. 

now resolved that he would watch the hen- 
house. '' I have a right — I owe it to myself," 
he said firmly, " to protect my — my — pre- 
serves." 

He armed himself with the long single- 
barrelled shot gun with which, as a young 
man, he had hunted ducks about the creeks 
and marshes. Then he stationed himself at 
his window commanding a view of the hen- 
house, and sat there for a week, night after 
night until day-break, when he dropped into 
a doze. But his chickens were safe. 

There was another watcher, whose sentinel 
duty was unknown to the Colonel — Uncle 
George Israel. After the second theft the 
aged darkey had missed the chickens, and 
when he asked the Colonel about them had 
learned of the robbery. 

He displayed much indignation, and went 
off with the remark, " I spicions de one whar 
done dat — I got my spicions of de ve'y nig- 
ger an I gwi keep close eye on dat hen-house. 
Why'nt dey steal some other white folk chick- 
en ? What dey warn steal fum Marse Pen 
for ? " 

George Israel, therefore, kept an eye on the 
hen-house. On a night when the moon was 



Pendleton Xcil of Rosalia. 73 

full the sentinel Colonel thought he heard 
George Israel's voice crying : '' I see you all 
stealin' dem chicken." 

The Colonel picked up the gun and, stand- 
ing before the open window, said in a loud 
voice : '' Halt ! Stop or I shoot ! " He saw 
one and then a second figure jump from be- 
hind the hen-house. His further call, "Stop 
instantly ! " only caused the two persons to 
move rapidly across the yard, and his hands 
trembling with excitement, he raised his gun 
and fired at random. A yell followed as one 
of the figures rolled over : " My Lord ! I 
killed." The Colonel knew the voice, and in 
the moonlight he could identify the person 
as Rastus Johnson. No matter what execu- 
tion the load of bird-shot had accomplished, 
it had plainly not ended the life of Rastus, 
for he quickly arose, and sped away, once in 
a while venting exclamations of pain. The 
Colonel noticed that Rastus' companion halt- 
ed at the moment of the report, and retraced 
his steps towards Rastus, but seemingly losing 
courage, rushed away. This individual the 
Colonel was almost certain was Nehemiah 
Nottum. The shot and shouts speedily 
brought out every one on the place. 



74 From Dixie. 

The Colonel was agitated. 

" I — I — did my bounden duty in geyarding 
my — my preserves, but I regret this occur- 
rence. I must have struck the misguided 
wretch severely, for he seemed to fall upon 
the grabs heavily." It was then about four 
o'clock in the morning, and the Colonel's ex- 
ploit had broken the rest of everybody for the 
remainder of the night. " Who was the 
thief ? " was the question which was renewed 
after daylight. The Colonel said nothing 
save to himself. 

''I had thought Rastus, though a slave of 
bad inclinations, as a youth, I had thought 
he had mended his ways. I surely had the 
right to geyard my preserves, and yet I would 
rarther he had stolen all the chickens than 
have discovered him as a thief. It is strange 
— a strange charnce that he was the — the — 
recipient of this charge of bird-shot, for I 
took no aim ; I fired as a warning only." 

" Nemmine bout you," was George Israel's 
observation, made with a knowing look, when 
he was asked about the shooting. " Nem- 
mine bout you, what I know I know; what I 
see I see; what I hear I hear. Y'all think Marse 
Pen too ole to handle gun. He — heyah. Yah! 



Pendletoit Xcil of Bosalia. 75 

Lor! bang! Zoo/ An den dee was a shout. He 
— lieyah — yaJt! Too ole to handle de gun! 
I lay de ain nar nnther nigger gwi fool long 
Marse Pen hen-house 'gin." 

The unlooked-for adventure shook the 
Colonel's nerves that day very much. He 
was conscious of a worn-out and perturbed 
feeling, and for the first time in several weeks 
did not go into the held and garden. The 
day was quite oppressive, and though with 
secret misgivings that he was allowing a 
spirit of lethargy to steal him from duties 
demanding his attention, he could not resist 
the inclination to remain in the shade of his 
cool porch with the solace of his books. In 
his agricultural zeal he had been forced to 
lay them aside, and while missing his favor- 
ite authors very much all that time, he had 
never been so irresistibly drawn towards 
them as he was to-day. He felt that they 
could soothe him. He was agitated physi- 
cally and troubled in mind over the fact that 
he had shot a man, how severely he did not 
know, though he had been assured that a 
load of bird-shot could not have done serious 
damage at the distance from which he fired 
it. "Ah, this is true, indeed," he soliloquized, 



76 From D 



IX ic. 



as his eyes caught one of his liked papers in 
the Spectator, and his face resumed almost 
the habitual placid expression which the 
day's worry had driven away from it. 

" Yes, sir," remarked the Colonel to the 
book, " I agree with you perfectly — perfectly. 
You are right, sir — you are right, and you ar,e 
kind. I thank you — I thank you." Then 
he read, in a low tone, a passage he had often 
read before, as follows: 

" I have always preferred cheerfulness to 
mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the 
former as an habit of the mind. Mirth is 
short and transient; cheerfulness fixed and 
permanent. Those are often raised into the 
greatest transports of mirth who are subject 
to the greatest depression of melancholy; on 
the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not 
give the mind such an exquisite gladness, 
prevents us from falling into any depths of 
sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning 
that breaks through a gloom of clouds and 
glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up 
a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it 
with a steady and perpetual serenity." 

" True, very true. A friendly admonition 
at this — this precise moment, in view of this 



Pendleton Neil of Tiosalia. 77 

morning's mischarnce. No, no, not strictly 
speaking a mischarnce. Arfter all, a — a — 
conjunction of circumstarnces over which I 
have had no commarnd — positively no com- 
marnd. I surely had the moral right to defend 
my — my — preserves, my — my — keyarsle ; for 
a man's home is his keyarsle." 

In all his life the Colonel had never had a 
greater feeling of indebtedness to his es- 
teemed friend, Joseph Addison, than at this 
moment. 

Late that evening the excitement reached 
fever-heat at Rosalia and thereabouts, when 
it was learned that Colonel Pendleton Neil 
was actually under arrest, in custody of a 
constable at the courthouse, charged with fe- 
loniously shooting him, the said Rastus John- 
son, w^ith intent to maim, disfigure, disable, 
and kill, against the peace and dignity of 
this Commonwealth. News, however, travels 
slowly in tlie country. The Colonel was ar- 
rested as he sat alone in his porch. 

No magistrate could be found that night to 
bail him, and so Pendleton Neil laid in jail 
tossing feverishly, for the air was hot. He 
could not sleep, for the rudeness of the ad- 
venture had agitated him ; but before break 



78 From Dixie. 

of day he had resolved himself into his habit- 
ual cheerful frame of mind. Then he said : 

" Strange things have come to pars in Virgi- 
nia indeed. Here I am in a dungeon, charged 
with the murder of one of my former slaves. 
And the keeper of this dungeon, the man 
who locks me in, was once a slave of my 
neighbor. Ah, we are drifting. Poor old 
State. We are drifting!" 

He detected through the jail bars the re- 
flection of the sun as it was rising, and a cool- 
ing breeze seemed to come through the win- 
dow with the light. 

"Ah, that is pleasant arfter such a close, 
stifling night," he muttered. 

Then he noticed the three holly-trees near 
the walls of the jail, and their branches shook 
with the emulating fluttering of the blue- 
bird company, whose merry chatter was glad- 
some ; and now above the midst of this ma- 
jority, there aspired an outburst from the 
humbler rest of a fence bush, an outburst 
cleaving through and soaring over their ag- 
gregated sounds, and brilliantly whirling in 
aery evolutions; rich jewels of wondrous vo- 
calization, as though the modest-hued ma- 
ligned cat-bird, was triumphing by right of 



Pendleton Neil of Rosalia. 79 

merit over its detractors, and working revenge 
in these notes evokeful of admiration. 

" How blythely those birds sing among the 
trees ! " he said, with a smile. " I farncy if I 
were a prisoner long I would always be tempt- 
ing them to sing by my window. Just here 
my thoughts recur to an old — yes, very old — 
sonnet. Strange ; I have skyarsely read it 
in twenty years. Let me see — by whom — by 
whom ? Lovelace, was it not ? The Cavalier 
poet, Lovelace, I am sure — quite sure. Love- 
lace — Richard Lovelace ; I think written in 
prison, perhaps just before he died. I never 
thought I would recall it under such circum- 
starnces, but it is apposite, very apposite. 

* Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Nor iron bars a cage, 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for a hermitage, 
If I have freedom — ' 

"Ah, now," he murmured; ''I have lost 
the thread, I fear. I fail to recall that line. 
Let me see — let me see: 'And in my soul am 
free.' I remember that — that laudable, ex- 
cellent sentiment, indeed. Mnd in my soul 
am free.' Just before that: 'If I have free- 
dom ' — freedom. Ah, it is here ! I have it — 



80 From Dixie. 

* If I have freedom in my love, 
And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 
Enjoy such liberty.'" 

In his enthusiasm he stepped hastily to 
the centre of his cell, as he said, " such lib- 
erty! " and his face lit up very much as he 
repeated the lines, but the energetic and rev- 
olutionary motion of the arm endangered his 
balance, for he had lost his cane, and stand- 
ing was not easy without it, as one of his legs 
was shorter than the other, and his recent 
agricultural labors had lately caused it to 
pain him. 

" Poor Lovelace! " he said; " I recall his 
career more distinctly now; wounded, de- 
spoiled of his fortune, sick and in prison, 
and died before the cause for which he fought 
was restored. Those are noble sentiments of 
his in this — this verse. I wish I could place 
my hand this very moment upon what he 
wrote. There is something more of like 
felicity. Let me see: 

* When linnet-like confined, I 
With shriller note shall sing ' 

What is the rest?" He paced his cell thought- 
fully, but the remainder of the sonnet eluded 



Pendleton Xeil of Rosalia. 81 

his memory, and while he was engrossed in 
the effort to recall the lines, his reflections 
were interrupted hy some noise outside the 
jail walls. He could hear voices, low at first, 
and then it seemed that caution had been 
dismissed and the talking was loud and gen- 
eral. 

" Gentlemen, good mornin','' the Colonel 
heard one of them say. '' I have just learned 
of this outrage. It is time now to hang 
somebody, openly, boldly, and without fur- 
ther delay." 

''My gracious!" the prisoner thought, 
aghast; "they are going to resort to deeds 
of violence. Stop there! stop there! " he 
shouted. Then with trembling hands he 
drew the cumbersome cell bunk to the win- 
dow and stood upon it, by means of which 
elevation he was enabled to see the group 
below^ and be seen by them. 

" Gentlemen! gentlemen! my friends! " he 
exclaimed, as loudly as he could. All glanced 
up and saw^ him. To their eyes he looked 
many years older and broken. His usually 
clean-shaven face was now whitened by the 
rough outcroppings of beard caused by the 
omission for tw^o mornings of his daily use 



82 From Dixie. 

of the razor. The steadily increasing heat of 
the cell had brought out streams of sweat 
upon his forehead, and the movement of the 
bunk from the position where it had stood 
undisturbed for many months, had sent forth 
a cloud of dust, much of which adhered in 
ugly black stripes to the damp surface of 
Pendleton Neil's countenance heretofore so 
placid and kindly. Several of those in the 
group below were heard to say afterwards 
that they could never forget that face as seen 
between the jail bars which were grasped by 
the two hands, trembling and grimy from 
such unusual contact. 

''My God! I will not stand that sight," 
shouted Reverley Digges. '' God bless you. 
Colonel; God bless you, sir! " He waved his 
hat to the prisoner. '^ We'll not let you stay 
in that hole five minutes longer." Then all 
of them waved to him. 

''My friends, my friends — gentlemen!" 
called the Colonel, as he vainly attempted to 
strengthen the volume of his utterances by 
clearing his throat. " Please make no hos- 
tile demonstration; no resistance of the con- 
stituted authorities. Let us proceed in the 
proper way." 



Pendleton Neil of nomlia. 83 

Here the group was enlarged by the pres- 
ence of two new-comers, breathless, travel- 
stained and red in the face from their hur- 
ried journey, for they had walked or run all 
the way. These parties were John Ransom 
and Bill Byley, both having shot-guns upon 
their shoulders, the armament of the latter 
being increased by the formidable-looking 
cheese-knife which he had caught up at the 
store and stuck in his belt. 

" No, I d'warn look at him. I ainter goin' 
to ever see his face through no jail bars," 
said Bill Byley, fixing his eyes sternly upon 
the ground, ''I'm here for business." 

The group grew rapidly in a few minutes, 
and now numbered eighteen men — three 
more bringing shot-guns, and one having his 
old army musket. 

'' My friends, your attention, please," the 
Colonel again shouted, as well as he could in 
his agitation, for the crowd seemed to be ani- 
mated by a delicate sentiment leading them 
to simulate an inability to see him behind 
the bars of a jail, especially after Bill Byley 's 
emphatic remark. ''My friends," the pris- 
oner proceeded to say, " please do nothing 
until the arrival of the magistrate." 



84 From Dixie. 

''Come on/' shouted Ransom; ''come on, 
boys ! Come on, ole Virginia ! " 

They moved around to the front of the 
jail and out of sight of the prisoner. The 
unusual hum of voices at that early hour had 
waked the negro jailor, and when imperative 
blows were showered upon the door he 
opened the window above, and leaning out, 
exclaimed : 

"Who dat mak'n dat noise down dar?" 

"Ransom, I swar I got a good mind to 
pink the nigger," said Bill Byley to his com- 
panion, as he brought his gun to his shoulder; 
" a dam black crow cawin' up thar over a 
gentleman." 

"Hoi' on; what's lie savin'?" returned 
Ransom, in a low tone. " What's the nigger 
sayin' ? " 

The jailor's eyes stared first with amaze- 
ment, and then fright. " Gent'mun, what 
de marter down dar ? " he asked. 

" We are here to demand the instant re- 
lease of Colonel Neil," returned Mr. Fel- 
lington. 

"Take that head out of that window, you 
dam black crow, or I'll pink you cert'n," 
shouted Bill Byley, unable to restrain himself. 



Pendleton Xeil of Romlia. 85 

The head was withdrawn in a twinkling, 
and the window fell. The panes having left 
their frames, the jailor could now conduct 
negotiations without raising it. 

" Gent'mun, I'll open de do'. Y'ain gwi 
trouble me, is you ? Mis' Brade tole me I 
boun't lock 'im up," cried the official, as his 
teeth chattered with terror. 

'' I knew it," shouted Bill Byley. '^ John 
Ransom, I toF you that worm was at the bot- 
tom of this. He's a goner when I see him." 

" Yas, boss, Mis' Brade de one vrhar say I 
gotter do it — de word done pass I gotter do 
it — " jabbered the jailor, scarcely knowing 
what he was saying. "Speyar me, my mars- 
ters; speyar a po' igneunt nigger." 

'' You will not be harmed," said Fellington. 
"Release the prisoner instantly. You have 
been imposed upon." 

"All right; I gwi let him out dis vey min- 
ute," returned CcTsar, much relieved and 
hastening off. 

He was at the door in an instant with his 
charge, who was enthusiastically received. 
But the raiders, or, as they were termed by 
some Northern historians of that day, " the 
infuriated mob," received a check at this 



86 From Dixie. 

stage of the proceedings from none other than 
Col. Pendleton Neil himself. He greeted 
them indeed warmly, shaking each one by 
the hand. 

'' No, gentlemen," he said, " I keyarnt con- 
sent to leave this court-house until the 
formality of an examination by a magistrate 
is through with. You apprehend that I have 
been dungeoned upon a charge, fabricated I 
hold, but yet that charge is spread upon that 
court-house record. It is written there 
against me and sent forth by a magistrate. 
My acquittal or conviction must be recorded 
along with that charge. I keyarnt leave 
until this formality is complied with. My 
friends, we have enemies — the old State has 
enemies — and this — this loyalty on your part 
to me — this — keyindness never to pars from 
my memory, may be used not alone to our 
personal detriment — that we could stand — 
but to the detriment of our beloved and 
stricken State, and our equally beloved and 
stricken South. My fellow-county men, — 
my — words at this precise moment keyarnt 
afford me the medium by which to fittingly 
set forth my — my — deep appreciation of your 
keyindness, but I purpose to — to place in 



Pendleton Neil of Rosalia. 87 

writing at an early day, a more appropriate 
recital of my feelings on this occasion, one 
giving you a testimonial your bold and — and 
chivalric attention to me by right should, and 
does, imperatively demarnd, and which the 
absence of leesure now, and the present ex- 
cited condition of my — my mind prevents me 
from enunciating. Gentlemen, I thank you ; 
I thank you." 

The magistrate for this district was 
Nehemiah Nottum, a negro. He appeared 
in the court-room accompanied by Solon 
Brade. 

Magistrate Nottum, in answer to the 
Colonel's dignified " demarnd as a citizen and 
Virginian, to know why I am arrested and 
inkeyarcerated," stated that it was upon com- 
plaint of Rastus Johnson. Rastus had been 
about the court-house all night, and was soon 
on the witness stand. His statement was to 
the effect, that an early hour, just before day, 
he was on his way to the mines. He was 
walking rapidly along the path behind 
Colonel Neil's house, and hearing an impera- 
tive demand to halt or he would be shot, be- 
came frightened, and ran across the yard, 
and the first thing he knew he was shot in 



88 From Dixie. 

the back. He recognized Colonel Neil's 
voice, and noticed that the report of the gun 
proceeded from the Colonel's house. 

''He is right in his statement as to the — 
the whereabouts of the firearm," said the 
Colonel with great firmness, as he glanced 
around the court-room. "And he was — he 
was presumably the — the recipient of a 
wound, or doubtless several punctures, more 
or less severe, from the weapon I myself dis- 
charged. I — I — had the right, undoubtedly 
the prerogative of every citizen, for a man's 
home is his keyarsle, I had the right to — to 
protect my preserves." The Colonel then 
made his statement. 

Just here Solon Brade, the carpet-bagger, 
said he would take the liberty of remarking, 
for the enlightenment of all concerned, that 
having heard Rastus Johnson's recital, and 
seeing that Rastus apprehended further at- 
tack from Col. Neil, he had informed Rastus 
that he undoubtedly had the right to get a 
warrant for the Colonel's arrest. 80 as a 
matter of self-protection this was done. 

The result of this examination was satis- 
factory, and among the archives of his native 
county, along with the only charge ever pre- 



Pendleton Neil of Bosalia. 89 

ferred against Pendleton Neil, of Rosalia, was 
the entry — 

" Case desmysd. 

" Nehemiah Nottum, J. P." 

" Neemi' Nottum, I warn see you," said 
Unc' George Israel, after the crowd had 
moved out on the court-house green. The 
two walked to a corner of the yard. 

'' Looky heyar, nigger," exclaimed Unc' 
George, ''what you warn come arter Marse 
Pen chick'n for? Whyn't you steal chick'n 
fum po' white people ef you gwi steal um? 
What you warn steal fum my quality folk 
for?" 

" What you got do wid me?" was the surly 
response. 

" I got dis," was the significant answer. 
" You better stay 'way fum dat hen-house. 
/ gwi do some shoot'n' next time an' I gwi 
shoot. You know w^hat kind 'r shot you gwi 
git fum me?" 

''What kind shot?" 

" You gwi git wrought-iron nails. Deni de 
kind I gwi put in my gun. When dat load hit 
a nigger — good-bye, nigger! Looky heyar," 
the speaker continued, in a confidential and 
gently advisory tone, as he placed his hand 



90 From Dixie. 

on the listener's shoulder, ''looky heyar, nig- 
ger, e/you warn yo' -i/^sides all jus' wropped 
roun' an' nailed toguther, like hoops roun' 
cider barr'l, an' the nails cleencked so dey 
won' come out, you jus' prize nuth'r plank ofF'n 
dat hen-house. I gwi teck my powder-horn 
to Mr. Kansom's for to fill it dis vey night. 
I nuv'r use bird-shot when I hunt 'r nigger. 
I d' warn no hammer to drive clem nails whar 
I gwi git." 

" Who you tell'n' all dat to?" was the re- 
ply. '' Lord, I ain' studd'n' 'bout you, Unc' 
George." 

^' I done say all I gwi say. Lemme see," 
observed the old darkey, counting on his fin- 
gers and looking ofi' thoughtfully. " Half- 
poun' — better say ivhole poun' — wrought-iron 
nails, Mr. Ransom, an' box caps, an' two 
poun' powder. Dis vey night, an' I gwi load 
her mos' to de brim; but I gwi clean her out 
fus\ She shoot, too, dat ole musket feyarly 
do shoot. My Lord, how she do keyar 'r 
load! Umph! stan' fum out de front!" 

He waved his hand as if to warn all per- 
sons in the vicinity to clear the track. This 
was the first intimation given in that region 
that George Israel was the possessor of a gun, 



Pendleton Neil of Rosalia. 91 

and Nehemiah Nottum was astonished at this 
sudden claim to superior markmanship by a 
one-armed colored man. But Nehemiah 
looked at him derisively and asked: 

"Who you talk'n to 'bout steal'n chick'n?" 

''I tell'n you; J see you. I heerd you say 
'prize slow, Rastus, prize slow.' And you see 
me when I come to de do' an holler to you 
all." 

" Nem mine bout you, nem mine bout you," 
was the answer. '^ You think case niggers wid 
one arm is skeeus, you vey import'nt. I kin 
chop off my arm, too. Dat what you did I 
believe. I don' believe no doctor cut off dat 
arm. I spicions you cut dat arm off pu'pose 
to say yovi de onliest one-arm nigger what 
dee is. Don meek no mo miration roun me, 
I tell you." 

''You better go long an ten' y'own business," 
was Uncle George Israel's warning repl3^ " I 
do'n teck no word fum ar nowhar nigger like 
you is no how. Dat's jus' what you is. You 
ain nuth'n. Y' ain got no pedegree ; y' ain 
got no title whar you kin prove." 

" Looky heyar — looky heaj-r, George Israel! 
Don' crowd me, don' crowd me," remonstrated 
Nehemiah, taking off his hat and slinging it 



92 From Dixie. 

to the ground. "Don use no sayins like dat 
to me." 

^'Who us'n any sayins?" 

'^Youis— " 

" You liar, you liar. Don' you come roun' 
wid no lie 'bout my us'n sayins. Ef you don' 
look sharp you wake up in 'r graveyard to- 
morrer an' you wonder how you git dar." 

" 117^0 gwi sen' me dar? " 

''Nem mine who gwi sen' you dar. You 
think case you kin read out de book you know 
ev'ything, but y' ain gwi read nuth'n in no 
book whar kin tell who sont you dai\ You 
keep fool'n roun' me you wake up to-morrer 
mornin early in graveyard, sho, an you be a 
skel't'n, too. Lord know you ainter gwi 
meek no good look'n skel't'n. . Looky heyar, 
Nee'mi'," the speaker concluded, in a confi- 
dentially low tone, " You de blackest nigger 
I uv'r did see. I don' see how dee got you so 
black." 

''Ole nigger," replied Nehemiah, as he 
picked up his hat and smiled, " I seed you at 
de cirkeus whar here dis August gone twelve 
munt. You was dar, warn't you? " 

"Of cose I at de cirkeus." 



Pendleton Xeil of Bomlia. 93 

'^ Did'n you see dat rhi'ro.stis whar horn 
com'n out de top of his nose? " 

^' Yas, of cose, I see de rhi'ro.s-tis. What 
you ax'n sich fool question like dat for?" 

'^ Did'n you see 'im when he eat'n straw 
same as a cow? " 

"Yas, nigger, yas; I see dat." 

''Well; I warn say dis, ole black man: 
Did you know dee was 'r flee on dat rhi'vo.s'tis' 
back; but dat ain meek no difference to de 
rhi'rostis. He kep on eat'n dat straw. He 
nuv'r know ar flea was dar — de flea so mighty 
small. Well, dat how much I studd'n 'bout 
you, ole nigger. I do'n know you is 'hout. I 
ain heyar ney word you spoke. Lem me 
see," continued Nehemiah, smiling to him- 
self and exploring the vicinity with his eyes, 
'' Well, I declar, I de onliest man in dis co't- 
yard dis minute. I wonder whar dat po' ole 
nigger, George Israel, is, whar brag so much 
case he think he de onliest one-arm nigger in 
de worl? Las' time I see 'im was day 'fo 
yisfdy. Well, I feel'n right lonesome stand'n 
heyar all by niysef. I bes' sing some. Umph, 
de Lordy, Lord}^ how lonesome I is right dis 
minnit. I give mos' anything to see some- 
body, even ef 't was a dog." 



94 From Divie. 

Having uttered this sarcasm, Nehemiah 
Nottum beat time on the ground with one 
foot, and looking up into the clouds hummed 
softly: 

" Shine along, shine along, my home is on de Jordan- 
1-a-n', 
My home is on de Jordan." 

Uncle George Israel's eyes flashed fury. 
He seemed to restrain a desire to do personal 
injury to the singer, and said, after a pause: 

" I don' have no call for Nowhar Niggers, 
nohow. A Nowhar Nigger better stay way 
fum me. Well, I better be mov'n on de sto 
fo it close." 

Then, addressing the imaginary store- 
keeper again, he said: ''Mr. Ransom, put 
plenty powder in dat horn, an I warn dem 
wrought-iron nails wid shmy pints. Lucinda, 
teck de shutter off''n dat winder and put de 
bench whar I kin sit right dar. Don' fool 
wid dat gun, gal ! — hit's loaded up to de brim. 
I hunt'n niggers now, an I warn have 'r good 
res' thew de winder so I kin put dat whole 
load in 'r nigger's hide, an 'r Nowhar Nig- 
ger's hide at dat." 

With this brief outline of prospective and 
immediate speeches to be made to his daugh- 



Pendleton Neil of Tiosalia. 95 

ter, and to Ransom, the old darkey walked 
off in one direction and Nehemiah Nottum in 
another, each informing himself in a lond 
voice, and with evident satisfaction, just what 
he intended doing, the upshot of it all being 
that one-armed niggers and Nowhar Niggers 
were to be swej^t from the face of the earth. 
It had been a trying three days' experience 
to the Colonel. His nerves had been tugged 
at in a way unparalleled in his long career, 
and he was very weary that night as he sat 
alone in his library by the light of a single 
candle, and though without sleep for two 
nights and physically distraught, his mind 
was not yet calm enough to give him 
slumber. He found the Spectator on the table 
just where he had hastily placed it when he 
had been arrested as a felon, and the volume 
was partially open, for in his haste he had 
closed it at a favorite page on which he had, 
in his agitation, involuntarily laid a bit of 
lightwood he had intended to forward to the 
commercial marts as a sample, and thus it 
seemed that this lightwood had kept the 
pages apart there, with an intimation that it 
was ready to furnish him illumination suffi- 
cient to see the soothing calm of Joseph Ad- 



96 From Dixie. 

dison, who spoke of cheerfulness as " an habit 
of the mind, daylight in the mind, filling it 
with steady and perpetual serenity." 

'^ Yes, yes," said the Colonel, as he opened 
the book at this page, ''yes, yes — very true. 
A lesson here, a useful lesson. Ah, I try not 
to think of the day and it's terrible warning 
to me. I thank God that I did not wound 
Rastus severely, for to have done him serious 
bodily harm under the doubtful circum- 
stances surrounding his — his — identity, 
would have been fearful to my future peace 
of mind. While I myself have been so sure 
about the presence of Rastus on my preserves 
that night, yet my reason, my — my reflective 
ability should have — have — admonished me 
how easily I might be mistaken. In the 
eaply morning — by the light of the moon — 
and my eyesight probably defective ! This 
assuredly teaches — warns — how careful old 
men should be in using firearms." 

He was yet restless — restless. He had 
never known his hands to tremble so long. 
''What a day of excitement this has been," 
he muttered, " beginning with the sun-rise. 
Ah!" he smiled, as his face lit up with the 
recollection of the songsters of the wood who 



Pendleton Neil of Rosalia. 97 

had gladdened far him the descent of the 
dawn. This was indeed the most soothing 
feature of the eventful experience. " How 
blythely they sang crowding those holly trees 
so near the prison walls. Wise, indeed, me- 
thinks, to leave trees standing there, and 
birds should always be — be accorded this 
charnce — this perch from whence to — to pro" 
mulgate their music through the jail-bars. 
How blythely they sang! " he said again, as 
he clasped his hands over his knees and 
looked down thoughtfully. " Let me see — I 
remember. It was this which set me to 
thinking of the forgotten lines of Lovelace — 
Richard Lovelace, the Cavalier poet: 

' AVhen linnet-like, confined, I 
With shriller note shall sing ' 

I will find them." He soon had the right 

book in his hand. '^\h! yes, here it is — the 

most beautiful — touching — of all of them, 

to my thinking: 

'When linnet-like, confined, I 
With shriller note shall sing 
The mercy, sweetness, majesty, 
And glories of my King; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 
He is, how great should be, 
Th' enlarged winds that curl the flood 
Know no such liberty ! ' 



98 From Dixie. 

Eloquent indeed — sadly resounding with the 
— the spirit of the — the dying Cavalier, for 
he was dying then, as I now recall; his re- 
maining days were but few — yes — but few. 
He was — his theme was — his earthly monarch 
— his — his — temporal sovereign, when he 
said : 

AVith shriller note shall sing 
The mercy, sweetness, majesty, 
And glories of my King; ' 

and yet to my mind these — this — this — 
tribute seems almost like a hymn — a hymn to 
God — to the Ruler above — grarnd — " 

The old tall clock in the library corner 
began to tell off twelve strokes, and the Colo- 
nel looked up quickly and startled. 

'' Midnight — midnight — and now Sunday. 
I had forgotten, and this is our church-day." 

He put aside the book and took from the 
table a worn volume, yellow of page and big 
of print. '' Yes — ah, yes — 

' The mercy, sweetness, majesty, 
And glories of my King.' 

Yes — is it not appropriate? this — this — mo- 
ment. And — and when I go over the — the 



Pendleton yell of Bosalia. 99 

varst experiences and dangers I have parsed 
through this day, this eventful day — 

'When I shall voice aloud how good 
He is ' 

Ah! the very lines of the — the wounded and 
— and — broken and dying Cavalier are — 
are — ." The Colonel did not finish the sen- 
tence, for he closed his eyes reverently, and 
presently turned the leaves of the Book of 
Common Prayer of his church and read its 
form of Evening Family Prayer, as had been 
the wont of his ancestors at Rosalia, as the 
shadows fell. So Pendleton Neil, following 
an ancient and honorable custom, devoutly 
went through the Confession of Sins with a 
prayer for contrition and pardon; prayer for 
grace to reform and grow better; and as each 
word w^as lifted by faith from its page and 
sent upward, the Colonelread: — 

"Reform whatever is amiss in the temper and 
disposition of our souls ; that no unclean thoughts, 
unlawful designs or inordinate desires, may rest 
there. Purge our hearts from envy, hatred and 
malice ; that we may never suffer the sun to go 
down upon our wrath ; but may always go to our 
rest in peace, charity and good will, with a con- 
science void of offence towards Thee and towards 
men — " 



100 From Dixie. 

^' Offence towards Thee and towards men," 
echoed the Colonel, thoughtfully, as he 
paused and allowed the book to close in his 
hand. '^\nd two nights ago I prayed against 
unlawful designs and hatred and malice. 
Was there not malice in my heart, anger, as 
I waited armed all night watching for the 
man I shot? And I designed to shoot him — 
unlawfully designed. May I be forgiven — 
may I be forgiven when I too think of 

'The mercy, sweetness, majesty, 
And glories of my King.' 

Amen — amen — oh, my God, amen! Grateful 
— grateful that this man's death is not to 
my — my charge. For this mercy, my King, 
I thank Thee— I thanh Thee." 

As he bowled his head in silent prayer the 
candle fell, and presently his eyelids w^ere 
weighted with sudden sleepiness as he groped 
the way to his room, and when the sun rose 
Sunday morning, while the birds sang 
blythely by his window, he lay across the 
bed upon which he had fallen, and his know- 
ledge of them and of all around him was 
shut off, nor did he speak again in the few 



Pendleton Xeil of nomlla. 101 

(lays he lingered, save once, and then he 
shaded his eyes with his hand as though 
viewing his fields, and laughed softly. to him- 
self as he muttered, '' the rarscles, they knew 
how much it pleased me." 

William W. Archer. 



THE WANDERER. 

My lamb is missing from the nightly fold, 
And bleak the wind that sweeps the darken- 
ing wold; 
Where wandereth she, so late and over-bold, 
With timid feet. 

Hath any seen a lamb that's gone astray, 
Caught on the thorns that lined her home- 
ward way. 
Or slipping down the steep, alack-a-day! 
With piteous bleat? 

Why to the storm is turned her tender 

breast? 
Her fold was full of love, and warmth, and 

rest. 
There w^as no lamb so sheltered and caressed 
The sun beneath. 

Or is she housed in an alien fold 
With simple head forgetful of the old 
And fated soon to shiver witli the cold 
Upon the heath? 



The Wanderer. 103 

Some thief hath stolen my lamb, though 

many had he, 
And all the world had but this one for me. 
An idle shepherd I shall ever be 
With idle crook. 

There was but one I ever wished to guide 
Over the chasm or up the mountain side, 
And pipe to on the meadows green and wide, 

From shady nook. 
Oh, Thou Good Shepherd! seek her in the 

path 
That many a pitfall, many a sorrow hath; 
On her bewildered head let not thy wrath 

Eternal break. 

To the calm pastures of a better land 
Where all the sheep are tended by Thy hand 
And follow ever as Thou dost command 
My wanderer take! 

James Lane Allen. 



TO A SAXON WOMAN. 

Thou honorest, lady, much the constant 

strain, 
The stream of Saxon steel that stays thy 

heart; 
Of its heroic past thou worthy art; 
Its future sure whilst such as thou remain. 
Stout-fibred as thy soul t' endure all pain, 
Staunch as when first it had its virile start, 
Strong to command in some stout viking's 

heart. 
Whose dragon pennon flouted fierce the main. 
Oft hath it since dyed many a crimson plain, 
In many a 'leaguered town held death at bay; 
Fine tempered in the dainty, gentle frame 
Of Saxon womanhood defied his sway. 
Fame on the scaffold wrested oft from shame 
The dauntless Teuton blood, the valorous 

Saxon strain. 

Thomas Nelson Page. 



THE RED LORD OF THE SOIL. 

He saw the ships come sailing on his streams, 
He marked the forts which rose along his 

strand ; 
Sore trouble entered in his thoughts and 

dreams, 
The great trees fell before the white man's 

hand, 
And wild fowl rose from nian}^ a broad lagoon 
Scared at the thunder of his musketoon. 
Marking this havoc, and the slaughtered 

game. 
Before his fancy cruel famine rose, 
His so-called friends he only knew as foes. 
Then, in his heart there entered hate and 

shame; 

And well might then the Indian warrior start 

The Saxons' swords Avere thirsty at his heart! 

Preaching the cross, they crucifixion gave. 

And loud for Freedom, made the chief a 

slave! 

James Barron Hope. 



MISS ISABELLA. 



MISS ISABELLA. 

Situated well back from the county road 
was the little church of Mount Calvary. It 
was a simple wooden structure, nothing more 
than an old-fashioned meeting-house, but it 
had played a great part in the lives of the coun- 
try peojile, who gathered there once every 
week — some to exchange greetings, some to 
talk over the condition of crops, and others 
to sing lustily old-time hymns, such as ''Rock 
of Ages," and to w^orship God in their own 
honest way. One thing about Mount Cal- 
vary impressed me always as being very 
unique. Into the walls, broken and cracked 
as they were in many places, several plain 
marble slabs had been inserted ; the inscrip- 
tions upon these slabs showed that they were 
there to commemorate the lives of church 
members who had passed away. I never saw 
this in any other small country church, and 
many a Sunday morning my attention was 
so fixed by the inscrij^tions that I found my- 
self reading them over and over, when I 



IK) From Dixie. 

should have been listening to the earnest 
words of the consecrated old preacher. One 
of these slabs had been erected to the mem- 
ory of Miss Isabella Westmore. The inscrip- 
tion said that she was a woman of " exalted 
Christian character, a devoted church mem- 
ber, a loving Sunday-school teacher, who, 
after a life filled with good works, had died 
at the age of forty-seven." 

Recalling these words, my memory goes 
back a few years to the summer when I 
nursed Miss Isabella through her last illness. 
Some one came to me and said that Miss Isa- 
bella (there was no need of giving her full 
name — we all knew her as 3Iiss Isabella) was 
sick, and alone, except for her paralytic bro- 
ther and their old servant Chloe. It was a 
gentle hint that I should go to her; I took it 
and went. How well I recall what a beauti- 
ful day in June it was. The cherry trees 
along the avenue were filled with birds, sing- 
ing and chirping; the sloping lawn, uncut, 
was a mass of sweet clover, and I thought as 
I drove up to the old house, there was a pe- 
culiar charm in the scene. What an old 
home it was, not changed in any way since 
'61, and how it and Miss Isabella seemed 



Miss Isabella. Ill 

suited to one another. She was so unlike the 
women of to-day — as active, as useful as they, 
there was always a timidity, a reserve about 
her, which made her appear very quaint and 
old-fashioned. As I passed the door and 
missed her usual kindly smile and hearty 
welcome, I seemed to realize for the first time 
what Miss Isabella wvas to the old place; how 
without her it was not just the same. I 
stepped into the parlor to lay aside my hat, 
the room had a musty, close odor, as if it had 
not been aired for some days. This, of itself, 
was evidence of Miss Isabella's illness. Of 
all the rooms in the house she felt most pride 
in this one. It had been furnished by her 
mother fifty years ago, and Miss Isabella had 
kept it just the same, and always in perfect 
order, letting in only enough light to show off 
the family portraits hung upon the walls. 
Two of these portraits were very fine speci- 
mens of Thomas Sully's work. As I looked 
upon them, the forms stately, the faces strong 
and intellectual, I felt that I understood anew 
the dignity of the race from which Miss Isa- 
bella had sprung. After this I mounted the 
winding stairs and came to Miss Isabella's 
own room, the same one in the southwest 



112 From Dixie. 

Aving of the house which she had occupied 
since her girlhood. Its furniture was just 
what the present fashion is seeking to repro- 
duce — white, with a decoration of wild roses 
and green leaves — it gave the room a fresh 
air, like a summer garden; and there Miss 
Isabella lay, as a queen would, I thought, 
among her snowy pillows, a damask spread 
thrown across her feet, a dainty muslin cap 
framing her pale, suffering face. On one side 
of the bed stood an old negro woman, who 
held a cup in her hand, and seemed to be 
trying to persuade Miss Isabella to partake 
of its contents. On the other side sat a man, 
who appeared to be very old, his beard and 
hair were very gray, and he supported him- 
self upon a crutch; his flashing black eye 
alone showed that his age was not as great as 
it seemed. Feebly and wearily he swayed 
back and forth a palm-leaf fan, seeking to 
drive away the flies from the invalid's bed. 
I knew that Miss Isabella would not be in- 
clined to have me supplant these old and 
trusted companions, yet it was evident that 
some young and steady hand was needed at 
that bedside. It was only by degrees that I 
was allowed to beat up the pillows, to admin- 



3Iiss Isabella. 113 

ister the potion from the cup, and finally to 
take possession of the fan, which the paralytic 
brother had been manipulating. Miss Isa- 
bella had a good night, and the next morn- 
ing I found myself installed permanently as 
her nurse. 

It was a very sad time; a very trying time, 
From the first Miss Isabella's illness Avas 
known to be fatal. She was aware of it, and 
often spoke of death as a release, though she 
said she would have been glad to live a few 
years longer, had it been God's will. Some 
days, when a new remedy had given her tem- 
porary relief, an expression of hope would 
brighten her worn face, but it never lasted 
many hours. Her suffering soon renewed 
itself, often intensified, and I think it was 
only her Christian fortitude which kept her 
from crying out in bitterness and despair. 
It was not possible that she should derive 
much pleasure from anything, yet many 
times she smiled in deep gratitude over a 
rose, or some sweet thing brought her by a 
friend; to Chloe, her old servant, she always 
spoke words of comfort; and some days, 
when she seemed to feel stronger, she would 
have her poor paralytic brother come and sit 



114 From Dixie. 

by her bed, and as long as her strength 
lasted she would stroke lovmgly and tenderly 
his wasted, thin hands. An old family dog, 
partially blind and deaf, crept very often into 
the room, and lay for hours at the foot of the 
bed, disturbing the peace by scratches and 
moans; yet Miss Isabella would never allow 
any one to drive him out. '' Fido is so faith- 
ful," she would simply say, and no one had 
the heart to expel the poor creature. 

Through all these weeks of agony one little 
possession seemed to have taken firm hold of 
Miss Isabella's heart. On the south end of 
the mantel in her room there stood an un- 
framed photograph, which w^as evidently a 
new acquisition. When I first went to Miss 
Isabella it was quite clean and fresh, and 
could not have been in its place more than a 
Aveek or two. It represented a man of about 
fifty, with a neatly trimmed beard, but with 
the back hair rolled under, as it was worn 
thirty or forty years ago. Often during each 
day Miss Isabella would have me bring this 
photograph to her, when she would gaze upon 
it intently, as if studying closely its every fea- 
ture. At such times I noticed a smile upon 
her face, but it was always a smile of inde- 



Mi^s Isabella. 115 

scribable sadness. Sometimes she kept the 
photograph with her, placing it beneath her 
pillow, and drawing it out from time to time, 
looking upon it with that same sorrowful 
smile. As terrible as Miss Isabella's physical 
suffering was — her trouble was one of those 
insidious internal diseases, developing into 
dropsy as death approached- — I could look 
upon it more calmly than upon this despair 
of hers, which I came to feel was not a new 
thing in her life. A few days before con- 
sciousness left her — later the dropsy attacked 
the brain — she asked me as usual for the 
photograph. I placed it in her hands. She 
looked upon it with more earnestness than 
ever before; she stroked it with her thin 
fingers, as if it had been a human face. 
Suddenly, convulsed by some insuppressible 
passion, she turned and buried her own face 
in the pillows. I knelt by the bed and placed 
my hand over hers. Turning again, she 
looked at me, her face transformed by a radi- 
ant smile, though the tears streamed down 
her wasted cheeks. ''I loved him,'' she said; 
then, the reserve of years being broken down 
with the utterance of these words, she wept 
violently. How thin and worn with age and 



116 From Dixie. 

illness she looked! How the gray hairs and 
the wrinkles blended on her brow! There 
was absolutely nothing one could do, except 
to catch her few broken words, and ask God 
to soften this final agon}^ of a loving, self- 
sacrificing soul. 

From what Miss Isabella said then, and 
from what older people told me later, I was 
enabled to get at the truth of the matter. 
Miss Isabella was the only daughter in a large 
family. Her mother whom Sully represents 
as a truly beautiful woman, died in '59, and 
Miss Isabella, then quite young, was left with 
her widowed father and nine brothers. As 
ever}^ one knows, the civil war came on in 
'61; four of Miss Isabella's brothers qualified 
for service in the Confederate army; the other 
five were young things, demanding of her much 
care and attention. Though quite a girl her- 
self, she was already engaged to be married to a 
youth who, in their school days, had capti- 
vated her heart. With so many burdens 
coming upon her at once, the young girl felt 
that she had no right to think of self, and so 
her lover was put off, and family duties took 
the first place in her life. It was not an easy 
thing to do; yet, having been ardently de- 



3fiss Isahella. 117 

voted to her mother, she felt unwilling to 
desert the obligations which her mother had 
left unfulfilled. - The young man whom she 
was to have married enlisted, like every other 
loyal soul, in the service of his State, and 
though he pleaded for marriage before his 
departure, it seemed best that they should 
wait. 

The war passed. It had done a terrible 
work for Miss Isabella. Two of her brothers 
liad been killed; the otJier two came back 
broken in health. Never before had such 
demands been made upon her; with a sor- 
rowful heart she surrendered herself to them. 
Her lover had quarrelled with her, because she 
was unwilling to go away with him and leave 
these demands unmet. No doubt the lover 
was right. Miss Isabella should have gone 
with him and escaped all these later years, 
so lonely and sad; but then it seemed to her 
only right to do as she did. She had very 
little heart for marriage, or anything apart 
from grief, in '65. Those days about Peters- 
burg had taken from her the one brother 
whom she loved most tenderly. He was a 
splendid young fellow, two years older than 
Miss Isabella. They had slept in the same 



118 From Dixie. 

cradle, been nursed together by Chloe, and 
had shared with one another all their pleas- 
ures and sorrows from their earliest years 
down to the day when Miss Isabella sat weep- 
ing over his dead body at Chimborazo, whither 
he had been carried from Petersburg. 

After this Miss Isabella always wore two 
plain gold rings upon one finger. As time 
passed they became almost as one ring, so 
completely had they fitted into each other. 
The one, I learned, had been her mother's 
wedding ring; the other she had taken from 
the hand of her dead brother,, who had re- 
ceived it from a young girl he meant to wed. 
The young girl soon married some one else, 
and Miss Isabella could never desecrate the 
ring by returning it to her. After Miss Isa- 
bella's death, when we were clearing the old 
house, we discovered neatly and carefully laid 
away the full uniform of a Confederate pri- 
vate. It evidently had only been worn a few 
times; possibly on dress parades. A bundle 
of letters, tied with a faded ribbon, were in 
the same drawer, two daguerreotypes, repre- 
senting a boy and a girl, and on the top of all 
an old gray felt hat, covered with dirt, and 
shot through and through, one bullet having 



Miss Isabella. 119 

cut in two a small Confederate flag which had 
been embroidered on one side. 

From what Miss Isabella herself told me, I 
understood that the photograph, which she so 
often requested to have brought to her, had 
come into her possession only the week be- 
fore her illness commenced. She had gone 
into the city to do some light shopping; pass- 
ing the business place of her old lover, she 
was strangely moved to stop and speak with 
him. Usually so timid and shrinking, it 
seemed then but natural she should do this. 
He was changed, very changed, but not so 
much as she; yet standing there, shaking his 
hand across his counter, how the past twenty 
years disappeared, and their youth came back 
to them! At parting, he gave her that pho- 
tograph, telling her that he would see her 
again. She went home, no one can tell with 
what hope in her heart; that fatal illness 
came on, she died, and they did not meet 
again. I can never forget the afternoon when 
Miss Isabella breathed her last. Conscious- 
ness had left her some days before; her breath- 
ing became very difficult; we threw open the 
south window and wheeled her bed near it; 
I put my arm beneath her head and lifted it 



120 From Dixie. 

up to meet the sweet southern breeze. Ex- 
cept the twitter of a bird or two above the 
window and the far-away low of a neighbor's 
cow, not a sound was to be heard. It was 
three o'clock, the most quiet hour of a sum- 
mer's day. How lonely and barren the fields 
looked as they stretched away from the old 
house; no laborers, no grain in them, only a 
few old apple trees filled with deserted robins' 
nests. A few desperate gasps, a few almost 
imperceptible breathings, and it was over. 
Miss Isabella had passed away ! I was aroused 
by the convulsive, even childlike, sobs of her 
paralytic brother, who clung to the foot of 
her bed. Chloe put her arm about him; Fido 
leaped up and licked his hands. Together 
the three went out of the room. 

When Miss Isabella was buried a beautiful 
wreath of white roses was laid upon the grave. 
I am sure some one from the city sent it. 

N. B. Winston. 



BENEDICITE. 

TO V. C. P. 

I saw her move along the aisle, 

The chancel lustres burned the while, 

With bridal roses in her hair: 

Ah ! Never seemed she half so fair. 

A manly form stood by her side, 
We knew him worthy such a bride; 
And prayers went up to God above 
To bless them with immortal love. 

The vows were said — we knew not yet. 
But all were filled with fond regret. 
So much a part of us she seemed 
To lose her quite we had not dreamed. 

Like the '^ fair Inez," beloved, caressed, 
She went into the Shining West; 
And, though one heart with joy flow'd o'er. 
Like hers, she saddened many more. 



122 From Dixie. 

Lady, tho^ far from childhood's things, 
Thy gentle spirit folds its wings, 
We offer now to him and thee, 
A tearful benedicite! 

John R. Thompson. 



TO 

Prologue. 

Let no song be sung to thee, 

That does not thrill with virtue's tone, 
That is not written in the key 

And chords of purity alone. 

And let no one sing for you 

Whose heart hath never touched the skies, 
Who cannot bring from Heaven's blue 

The only songs your heart can prize. 

Whoso sings for thee — his song 

Should soar beyond mere earthly art — 

And few the hands that sweep along 
The grandest octaves of the heart. 

Father Ryan. 



IN VENICE. 

The summer rose, the sun has flushed 
With crimson glory, may be sweet; 

'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed 
Beneath the tread of wanton feet. 

The rose that waves upon its tree 
In life, sheds perfume all around; 

More sweet the fragrance floats to me, 
Of roses trampled on the ground. 

The waving rose with ev'ry breath, 
Scents, carelessl}^ the summer air, 

The wounded rose bleeds fortli in death, 
A sweetness far more ricli and rare. 

It is a truth beyond our ken, 

And yet a truth all may read, 
It is with roses as with men, 

The sweetest hearts are those that bleed. 



In Venice. 125 

The flower, which Bethlehem saw bloom 
Beneath the Virgin Mother's face, 

Gave not the fulness of perfume. 
Until the Cross became its vase. 

Father Ryan. 



EASTER SUNDAY. 

I kneel at the open tomb, 

I pray in a whispered breath; 

From Calvary fades the gloom, 
And glory gleams on death. 

He rises — He who died, 
With triumph on his brow, 

And the Cross of the Crucified 
Is vindicated now. 

And death has lost his dread, 
And all the graves become, 

But places where the dead, 
Rest on their pathway home. 

Father Ryan 

At Amiens, France. 



'■7 



1/ 



MOON POSSESSED. 

[After the French Prose of Charles B£lfc«ielaire.l 

And as she slept, one arm beneath her head, 

As sleeps the Titian Venus, came the moon 

And clasped a long white arm about her 

throat. 

And touched her lips, and whispered low 

to her:-_ 

Because thou hast felt my kiss, 
Child, give I this fate to thee — 

Whatever thy life may miss. 
Like mine shall thy beauty be. 

In thine eyes shall be multiform lights, 

Of the wave as it upward rides; 
With the love of the darkling nights, 

The clouds and the shifting tides. 

Forever thine eyes shall turn. 

To the place where thou may'st not go; 
Forever thy heart shall yearn. 

For the loves thou may'st not know. 



128 From, Dixie. 

The scent of the far strange flowers, 
Shall quicken a throb in thy brain; 

And out of the silent hours, 
Come music akin to pain. 

My lovers shall love thee well, 

For of those have I made thee queen, 

Whose throats I have clasped in a spell, 
Whose eyes as the sea are green^ 

Whose hearts have forever yearned, 
For the women they may not know, 

Whose eyes have forever turned, 
To the land where they may not go. 

The lovers of nights and of clouds, 

Of the uniform multiform sea, 
Wave-dashed with the whiteness of shrouds. 

My lovers and thine shall be. 

Heed not that men call thee mad, 

Of the scent of the far strange flowers, 

Of the marvellous music and sad. 
Struck out of the silent hours. 



3foon Possessed. 129 

Thou shalt hear what their ears shall miss, 
Shalt see what they may not see. 

For that thou hast felt my kiss, 
Child, give I this fate to thee. 

And stirring not she opened slow her eyes 

In wonder at the strangeness of her dream; 
And, spirit-still, the long pale moonbeam 
slipped 
From round her throat and lay along the 
floor. 

Charles AYashington Coleman. 



SOME DATA 



So let us watch, a single pale star keeping 

Its vigils o'er the tide. 
No truth is lost for which the true are weeping, 

Nor dead for which they died." 



SOME DATA. 
I. 

" What is the song the sea-wind sings — 
The old, old song it singeth for aye? 
It seems to breathe a thousand things 
Ere the world grew old, and sad, and grey." 

You want some data for a sketch of Ted's 
life. He was a very reserved fellow, but I 
suppose I knew him as well as any one did. 
I might give you facts and dates, but I can 
give you four scenes in Ted's life that will be 
better, I think. I was so vividly impressed 
at those times, that whenever he is men- 
tioned they rise before me as clearly as if set 
down on canvas. 

We were cousins, and I, an undersized, 
rather sickly orphan, knew no other father 
or mother than Ted's, nor any other home, 
nor wanted to know. 

Ted broke the ponies — kept the fishing 
tackle and guns in order — and licked all the 
fellows who called me " Molly." I did his 
Latin and Greek when we sat side by side in 
the old town school, and later, when we 
went to college, the same division of labor 



134 From Dixie. 

took place. In the end, our debts were 
divided by two — Ted graduated creditably, 
and I was not a disgrace to the class as a 
sportsman. Not to be able to ride, to shoot, 
and to manage a boat, was on our course con- 
sidered a true and deep disgrace, and from 
this Ted saved me. 

He was never happy away from the water, 
and never away from it any longer than he 
could help. His father owned Head Island, 
and Headland was our home. It was a big, 
white, old-fashioned, Southern country house, 
with nothing fine about it save the avenue and 
the people. Comfort, and plenty, and peace, 
and good-will, and health — happiness came 
without seeking. Some things at Headland 
I will never forget ; one was the view. 
Standing in the deep piazza, one looked out 
from under the shadow of the great live-oaks, 
over a wide sweep of sun-lit or storm-swept 
water, clear out to Far Island, where the 
broad Atlantic roared and thundered. I 
have never seen any sky so blue, nor any 
water that sparkled so. Another thing was 
the jonquils — white jonquils — masses and 
masses of them that bloomed just before we 
moved into the town of Deep Haven for the 



Some Data. 135 

summer — " As pure as the souls of children," 
Ted said once to himself, and I overheard him. 
He would gather reckless quantities and put 
them in his boat when he went out. He 
would watch them withering in the sun, 
while they filled the air with sweetness. 
" What better death than sunshine, or what 
pleasanter grave than the water?" he would 
say, and scatter them overboard. 

A third thing that Headland was famous 
for was the cooking. You see, all of one end 
of the kitchen was open fire-place. I have 
been in model kitchens with shining stoves, 
and trim pans arow, but for good cooking, 
with all flavors and juices preserved, give me 
the big open fire-place of the old Southern 
kitchen. They were necessarily disorderly, 
for the cook, in oider to give his genius full 
play, had to have so many assistants. They 
have often been described, but you have never 
heard of Headland's stuffed crabs and terra- 
pin soup, that were unrivaled — of the calla- 
pash and callapee — of the sweet wafers and 
rice waffles — nor of the rendering of game 
and fish that was a symphony in taste. Of 
course Uncle Edward died of gout ; just be- 
fore the war, fortunately, and Aunt Mary 



136 From Dixie. 

followed him in a month — broken-hearted. 
Marriage was a success in those days. 

There was another memorable thing at 
Headland — the beds. They absolutely wooed 
one to sleep ; the linen was so fine, the pil- 
lows were so big. I preferred to lie awake 
and enjoy the comfort, and watch the red 
glow from the light wood fire play on the white 
walls — on the white frill around the top of 
the big four-poster — on the silhouettes of my 
grand-parents, in their funny gilt frames, 
that hung over the dressing-table — on the 
dressing-table itself, standing on four long, 
slim legs, held together at the bottom by a 
shelf, at the top by two shallow drawers 
which supported an oblong looking-glass. 
If I had only a thousand dollars I would give 
it all for that old dressing-table. I think I 
could find Ted's face in that glass. 

Ted had some strange ways. He would 
float alone in his boat on the moonlit waters 
all night. He would spend nights and days 
in the woods and swamps, and he knew the 
voice and habits of every beast and bird that 
lived there. But the first time that Ted took 
shape for me, so that I had any impression 



Some Data. 137 

at all of his looks, was once while we were at 
home from college. 

It was a brilliant day in Jnly, with a stiff 
breeze blowing, that put a cap on every ripple 
in Deep Haven sound — "river," we called it. 
So much for the wind; the sun was scorching. 
There was a devil-fish expedition on foot 
among our uncles, and fathers, and cousins, 
and we were keen to go. Ted had his own 
boat and oarsmen, but that was not the point. 
It is dangerous sport, and Ted was not alto- 
gether well, and Aunt Mary was miserable; 
so Uncle Edward said a flat-footed " No " to 
us, although he was the leader of this very 
expedition. Ted, however, manned his boat, 
got his harpoon and lances in order, stretched 
his line, and asked me to go with him to see 
the fun. At the last moment cousin Fred 
stepped into our boat, and sat down near me 
where I was holding the tiller ropes. Cousin 
Fred always dressed in white in summer, 
Av^ith a dandy white hat and a white umbrella. 
The most immaculate person possible. This 
day, as he sat down. Uncle Edward looked at 
him quizzically. 

" You are aiding and abetting my boys in 
rebellion, Frederick," he said. Cousin Fred. 



138 From Dixie. 

drew his hand over his beard thoughtfully, 
and his eyes smiled behind his glasses. 

" I understood that Ted and Robin were 
going as spectators," he answered, " and four 
oars do not promise a long cruise." 

''Yet, that looks like work," and Uncle 
Edward pointed to Ted's harpoon and skill- 
full}^ coiled line. 

" So it does," Cousin Fred, answered, mus- 
ingly, " but perhaps those are put in for safe- 
ty. Suppose a dangerous fish should attack 
us? These waters abound in jelly-fish." 

Uncle laughed. " You are always on their 
side," he said; "but, remember, there is your 
Cousin Mary to settle with." 

We followed modestly behind the big boats 
as they made their way over to Broad Creek, 
drawing out a little further than the rest, 
which was perfectly in keeping with our part 
as audience. Presently a wing appeared 
above the water ; every boat dashed forward 
except ours. Ted, standing in the bow, har- 
poon in hand, made his men back water, and 
Cousin Fred, smiled. Very soon we heard 
cries and exclamations, and saw confusion in 
the little fleet; then we knew that the fish 
had gone. They had turned to come back. 



Some Data. 139 

when a black wing swept all the oars from 
one side of our boat ! Ted's harpoon literally 
hurtled through the air as he sprang back- 
ward to save himself ; the next instant he 
was in his former place, hatless, with the line 
spinning through his hands ! The boat 
righted itself, the terrified negroes drew in 
the remaining oars, and we went rushing 
through the foaming water after the great 
sea-monster. Cousin Fred, lowered his um- 
brella, and taking out his handkerchief 
waved it to the forsaken fleet, while he said: 
" Be ready to cut the line, Ted; this speed is 
dangerous." Then I looked at Ted as he 
stood bare-headed at the bow of the boat, 
clearly outlined against the pale summer sky, 
and for the first time I realized him. Tall, 
slim, well poised, Saxon features, and fair 
hair that the wind pressed back as it whistled 
by; a jaw like a rattlesnake, and blue Celtic 
eyes that were gleaming and flashing ! I 
have never forgotten it. I can hear how the 
wind whistled — how the water swished by us 
— I can see the moving panorama of the dis- 
appearing land — see how the day died down 
behind us — how the ocean rose up before us, 



140 From Dixie. 

and Ted standing there the incarnation of 
youth, and strength, and joy! 

Later, when the battle was over, and we 
were beating our slow way back with the dead 
devil-fish dragging in the rear, Ted sat down 
beside me that I might help him with his 
hands. His thick gloves had been torn to 
ribbons by the spinning line, and the skin of 
his palms had followed suit, and now he 
wanted me to pull the remains of the gloves 
off, and the fragments from where the dried 
blood held them. 

"Wait till Aunt Mary can bathe them, 
Ted?" I pleaded. 

" Dip them over the side," Cousin Fred, 
said, coolly, from where he was amusing him- 
self driving the sharks away from the carcass 
we had in tow. 

I caught Ted's hands from the water; I had 
only just learned how much I loved him. 

"It will burn you like the mischief!" I 
said. 

" If it burns like the devil, it does not mat- 
ter now," he answered. " I've won ! " 



11. 



"All my days I'll go the softlier, sadlier, 
For that dream's sake !" 

Isabel was our third cousin, and I do not 
remember any time in her life when I did 
not adore her. I had a great deal to do with 
teaching her to walk, and I taught her to 
read entirely. To me she was always beauti- 
ful, though every one declared that she 
changed wonderfully between fifteen and 
eighteen. Down at Far Island in the sum- 
mer, where all the little children went bare- 
footed and paddled all day on the edge of the 
surf, Isabel never ventured more than to wet 
her little toes unless I held her hand. 
" Wobbin," she called me; and I dug canals, 
built houses, picked up shells, and even 
humbled myself to make mud-pies for her. 
As years advanced, I caught crabs with her; 
I baited her hooks; I read aloud, and helped 
her with her lessons. Then Ted and I went 
to college, and Isabel went off to school. For 
three years I did not see her, but we corres- 



142 From Di. 



ne. 



ponded regularly. When she was eighteen 
she returned to Deep Haven, the loveliest 
vision I have ever seen. " Robin," she called 
me; and kissed me as she had always done, 
and as quietly as if I were w^ood or stone. She 
was a little taller than T, not much, but she 
laughed and patted me on the head, then 
looked up at Ted, whose eyes had never left her 
since she entered the room. She shook 
hands with him; she standing a little behind 
me with her left hand on my shoulder, and 
called him "Cousin Ted," and my heart 
b.unded within me as I thought how much 
more she was mine than his! She talked to 
me of all the old days, how I had taught her 
the things she most cared for, and how she 
used to think that all the wisdom of the 
world was mine. 

''And I am not sure that I was wrong, 
Robin," she said, '' and when we get down to 
Far Island we will dig some canals and make 
some mud-pies for old times' sake." 

"Of course," I answered; "we will say the 
alphabet if you like, and go out even now and 
dig for doodles." 

How she laughed; such a sweet, ringing 
laugh ! 



Some Data. 143 

Ted sat almost silent, sometimes watching 
us as we talked together on the sofa — some- 
times looking past us out of the window. I 
think it was the first and only time I ever 
felt that I had something apart from Ted, 
and was glad to have it so. The sun w^as 
setting as we walked home, and all the 
splendid pageant of the evening clouds was 
mirrored in the sound. Joy seemed to be 
bubbling and rushing through my veins — I 
felt as if walking on air — as if breathing the 
beautiful colours, and the stillness seemed to 
throb Avith life and happiness. Then Ted's 
voice fell on the silence, and a deadening 
power was in it that arrested everything. 

" She is like a white jonquil, and they say 
Cousin Fred, is in love with her." 

In love with Isabel — my Isabel ! A sudden 
fury possessed me; then the reflection came, 
how could he help it ? and I asked quietly : 
''Who says so?" 

" Mother." 

''I don't blame him," I said. 

''Who could?" Ted answered. "Cousin 
Fred, is a man of the world," he went on 
slowly, " has been everywhere, is rich and 
handsome. What do you think, Robin ? " 



144 From D 



ixie. 



A moment before I had thought of Isabel 
as mine, and not Ted's ; now I looked on him 
as an ally. 

''Cousin Fred./' I said, " is a Methuselah!" 

"Thirty," Ted answered, "and girls like 
that sort of thing. You are only twenty-one, 
and I twenty-three; she may callus callow !" 

" Why, man, I've brought her up !" I cried. 

We went down to Far Island for July and 
August; most of Deep Haven did, for both 
Deep Haven and Far Island belonged to 
the Clan. It was only a collection of rough 
frame houses interspersed with tents, some- 
times of canvas, sometimes of palmetto, 
where everybody marooned for the sake of 
the sea-bathing. ' It was all temporary, be- 
cause Far Island was sometimes covered by 
the sea in the September storms. But it was 
idyllic: comfortable uncles and aunts; old- 
fashioned, shy girls; boats of all shapes and 
sizes; violins, guitars, and banjos for music; 
surf-bathing, fishing, and boating by daylight 
and moonlight for fun; idleness; health; 
youth; good servants; what could be wanted 
more ? The storms were brief, and the rain 
came seldom in that fairy-land; indeed, shel- 
ter from the sun was a far greater question 



Some Data. 145 

than protection from the rain, and for both 
pnrposes frames were run out from the houses 
and thatched with broad pahnetto leaves, 
while for floor there was the white sand. 
A¥e would gather sometimes at one house, 
sometimes at another, with cool melons and 
guitars, and hammocks, and smoking-chairs 
and tools; and golden hours would pass while 
the fresh sea-wind rustled the dry palmetto 
leaves, or the rain pattered and splashed on 
them — and the boom of the sea kept time to 
the thrum of the music, and the wind swept 
the soft songs away. Then the afternoon 
wanderings on the wide white beach, when 
the world was wrapped in the golden glow^ of 
the dying day, and the sea-gulls dipped and 
skimmed from wave to wave. 

All those days, and places, and people are 
ever wrapped in a golden mist for me. No 
words can describe the life, and no mortal 
eye will ever see its like again, for the civili- 
zation that made it has passed away. They 
are scattered to the four winds of Heaven 
now, those quiet gentle folk, and the world 
says that it is best. That they were degen- 
erating; that like all aristocracies they were 
being put on the shelf by the vigorous, 
10 



146 From Dixie. 

pushing masses. Perhaps; but in the ship- 
wreck that overtook them, they showed them- 
selves to be the stuff of which martyrs are 
made. Not many of them are left, but 
whenever you meet one of those exiles, you 
find a passionate love for that old time and 
place, and an unquenchable longing, looking 
out from tired eyes. Those of them who 
died on the battle-field, full of strength and of 
heroic purpose, had the best of it. But do 
not suppose that Far Island and its inhabi- 
tants was like any seaside resort of to-day; 
not at all; even the young men were a little 
shy. I think I was the one privileged char- 
acter, an*d it was because, as my cousin 
Emma said, ''Robin is poetical and musical — 
is everything, indeed, that a lady-like little 
man can be — quite fit to fetch and carry for 
Isabel." Nor was it all music and melons. 
Manly sport was the rule. Among the 
younger men, Ted led, and even among the 
veterans he was taking position. For me, I 
had but one thought, Isabel; and but one 
occupation interfering with Cousin Fred. 
Whenever I saw them together, I would ap- 
pear on the other side of Isabel with some 
claim on her attention, and she never failed 
me. 



Some Data. 147 

Sometimes Cousin Fred, would smile, and 
once he said— ^' What will you do, Isabel, 
when Robin falls in love, and carries his 
weal and woe to other ears? " .For the mo- 
ment I hated him, and looked it, but for 
answer his eyes only twinkled a little more 
as they met mine, until Isabel answering — 
'' I will turn you into a brother, then, Cousin 
Fred." — a new possibility came to the front, 
and we looked away from each other. But 
whenever Ted took his place by Isabel's side, 
I felt quite safe from Cousin Fred.; sorry for 
him, because w^e were two to one. 

One day a heavy wind-storm came up 
which was alarming in itself, but terrifying 
in the light of the fact that a large fishing 
expedition had gone out. By sunset all the 
boats but four had come in; by midnight, all 
but Ted's. By morning Far Island was mis- 
erably anxious, and boats went out in every 
direction; but as the day grew, they came 
back one after another without any tidings. 
All the men were sitting about in groups, 
smoking furiously; most of the feminine 
community were gathered about poor Aunt 
Mary, sitting dry-eyed and white, in her si- 
lent house. I stood on the beach with a spy- 



148 Fro VI Dixie. 

glass until I was exhausted, then I went to 
Isabel. She was sitting alone with a book 
open before her. 

'' How can you read? " I asked, taking a 
seat. 

" Ted is so brave and skillful," she said, 
slipping her hand in mine. ^'And he never 
fails, does he? " 

'' Never," I answered, " not even in his 
college examinations." 

'' He is weakest there? You are hard on 
him." 

I turned on her sharply and began a rapid 
defense of my hero. 

" He is a poet," I finished. ''He has never 
written a verse, but he lives it — he feels it — 
feels all the beauty and pathos of the uni- 
verse. Look into his eyes and you will see 
it — if we ever look into his eyes again! " 

" Hush!" she whispered. 

" How cold your hand is! " I cried. 

" It is yours that is cold," and she drew 
hers quickly aw^ay. 

Near sunset a rumor came that something 
had been sighted. 

" Go and find out," Isabel said, and went 
indoors, while I took my way to the beach. 



Some Data. 149 

My glass trembled so at first that I could see 
nothing, then I descried a speck that in the 
setting sun looked like the wing of a pink 
curlew; suddenly it flashed into the silver of 
a gull's wing. My breath came sharply — it 
was a sail boat, but had veered away. 

" Something is wrong with her," Cousin 
Fred. said. 

" Great God! " cried Uncle Edward, ''where 
are my lazy scoundrels? Csesar, call out the 
hands — have that boat ready in five minutes 
if you love your life! Robin, stay with your 
aunt; if it should not be Ted it will kill 
her!" 

In twenty minutes every boat had left the 
island. I went to the house and took my 
seat on the steps of the piazza, for within all 
Aunt Mary's sisters and aunts and cousins 
were sitting about her. She caught sight of 
me and came out. I rose to meet her and 
she clasped my hands convulsively. 

''I am sure it is Ted's boat," I said. 

A shudder went over her. " But, is he in 
it? " she whispered. " Oh, Robin, he may 
have been swept overboard!" 

" Not Ted," I answered. 

" He might have succumbed to the heat." 



150 From Dixie. 

" There is the shadow of the sail," I com- 
forted, again. Then I brought her a chair, 
and resumed my seat on the steps, while we 
watched the boats as they went. If it was 
Ted they would lire a gun. It seemed hours 
that we watched. Within was the low hum 
of women's voices, like the voices of those in 
the house of the dead; without, groups of 
awe-stilled boys waited on the beach; the 
silence of death had fallen, and nothing 
stirred save the wind and the waves. The 
sun sank down a ball of red; it seemed to 
rest on the sea for a moment, turning it to 
blood, then disappeared slowly like the me- 
chanical sun in a show. The waves bobbing 
up in front of it, gave it the appearance of 
going in jerks, as if the machinery needed 
greasing. In my misery I smiled at the in- 
congruous thought and the badly managed 
sunset, but I have never forgotten it. Then 
everything turned gray. 'The boats were 
specks — the groups of boys had gathered 
into one — and the murmur of voices within 
took a lower tone. Every moment, without 
the sound of the gun, was a segment of hope 
gone. I was too anxious to be still, and I 
took out my watch. 



Some Data. 151 

" What do you think? '' Aunt Mary whis- 
pered, faintly. 

" It will be a half hour yet before they can 
distinguish the boat," I answered, at random. 
She took the open watch and fastened her 
eyes on its face. 

" Five minutes," she said, presently, then 
— '• ten minutes — fifteen minutes," she went 
on — ^'twenty." 

What a fool I had been to time her! 

" Twenty-five minutes — twenty-six — " 

" I had no ground for timing them. Aunt 
Mary," I said. 

" Twenty-seven — twenty-eight — " 

A far, far-off reverberation ! I sprang to 
my feet, the boys on the beach gave a cheer, 
the watch dropped with a smash, and all the 
women rushed out to Aunt Mary, who had 
fainted. 

Everybody flocked to the beach now, and 
we talked about nothing," and laughed gaily 
in the glad reaction. The boats were grow- 
ing as they neared us, and now we could hear 
the negroes singing — all the boats singing 
the same thing — " Roll, Jordan, Eoll ! " It 
made a great volume of sound, and it was one 
of the grandest things I have ever heard. 



152 From Dixi 



xie. 



Ted was landed safe and sound, and in the 
face of all that company I did a thing that 
no man or boy there would have done at the 
point of the bayonet — I threw my arms round 
Ted's neck and kissed him ! 

'' Emma will call you u/ilady-like, now," he 
said, softly, while his eyes shone, and his face, 
that looked so pale under its bronze, turned 
quite red. But he kissed me in return, and 
I know he would rather have fainted. 

That night the moon was full, and coming 
out from Aunt Mary's room, where I had been 
telling her over and over again of the scene 
on the beach, I looked for Ted or Isabel, but 
could not find them. I felt a little lonely, a lit- 
tle injured, and stepped into one of the boats 
that was beached near by. I arranged a 
comfortable place in the stern, and stretched 
myself back luxuriously. I could look out 
over the sweep of the ocean glittering under 
the moon, or down the long curve of shining 
beach that dwindled as it went, and far, and 
far away vanished to a point that seemed 
almost to touch the quiet stars. The tide 
was going out, the waves that were little more 
than ripples, plashed distantly; the wind had 
fallen. 



Some Data. 153 

How long 1 lay tliere I do not know. If 
all my dreams were waking dreams, or if I 
slept, I do not know ; but far off up the shin- 
ing pathway of the beach — far off by the 
quiet stars, I saw a thing that moved. Slowly 
it came down the broadening, silvered curve. 
I watched it, fascinated; a round thing — no, 
an oblong thing that moved on end; then two 
little horns appeared. Nearer down the wide 
w^hite way it came; now half was floating 
drapery, half was still black. The horns had 
turned to heads — two people, a man and 
w^oman ! Slow they came. Nearer; their 
voices, their words were with me. I could 
almost have touched them. They stop'ped 
and looked up to the great moon; then he 
bent his head between her and the light. 

" I am jealous even of moonbeams," he 
said, and they turned away toward the house. 

Aunt Mary had broken my watch, so I do 
not know how long it was before Ted came 
back alone. I rose up to meet him. 

''What will Cousin Fred, do?" I asked. 

He turned upon me quickly. His face was 
all alight; his eyes gleamed like stars; he 
raised his arms to heaven and looked up 
while the moonlight made a glory in his fair, 



154 From Dixie. 

wind-blown hair — " What matter," he said, in 
a low vibrating voice; " I've won, and she is 
mine!" 

I will never forget that picture, how Ted 
stood there radiant, with his arms stretched 
up to heaven. 

I stayed all night in the boat. I watched 
the tide go down — the moon ride higher, and 
the silvered sea that seemed so sound asleep. 
There came a moment when it held its 
breath — not a sound — not a motion — poised 
at the point of rest! I held my own breath. 

Something stirred somewhere, and a sigh 
swept by me, and out over the face of the 
great deep, shivering it into millions of glit- 
tering ripples. They flashed just once toward 
the paling moon, then rushed shoreward. 
The tide had turned, and a new day was 
pushing up from the underworld. 



Ill 



"Would but some winged angel ere too late, 
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate." 

Ill 1<S68 Ted was sent for by the General 
commanding the department where he was 
then serving as Major of Artillery, and asked 
if he would take charge of a ruin, called a 
fort, in one of the harbors. He was to have 
a limited garrison, and of course, hold the 
fort to the last gasp. I went with Ted to 
headquarters, but was not present at the in- 
terview. When it was over he walked in 
silence to his room at the hotel. Once 
there, he drew the one chair in the place to 
the window and sat down. He had not taken 
off his hat, and he was occupying the only 
chair to the exclusion of his guest; two signs 
of mental excitement that made me expect 
important revelations. I took my seat on the 
table, and waited. When he told me, I said 
quickly — ''That is a forlorn hope, Ted, a 
useless sacrifice of you. It is sheer folly!" 

''Folly— forlorn hope! It is a crown of 
glory!" 



15G From Dixie. 

''Do you forget Isabel and the two boys?" 

''Would you have those boys hear that I 
refused the position because of the risk?" 

" It is only a pile of rubbish," I urged. 

" I will hold it, or leave it a pile of bones." 

" Suppose they overwhelm you, what will 
you say then ? " 

"When that happens I will be dead, and 
not in a conversational mood. I wish I could 
put Isabel and the boys in one of the case- 
mates," he went on, beginning to walk up 
and down the room; " the little chaps have 
been under fire, and are not a bit gun-shy." 

I got down from the table. " Good-bye," 
I said, "I will do my best for your widow and 
orphans; I suppose the Government will bury 
you." 

He turned quickly. " I am not going to 
leave you out of it," he said, " I shall have 
you transferred." 

As I was only a chaplain, I was assigned 
next day, and we w^ent down to the fort to- 
gether. That very afternoon Ted inspected 
everything, down to the last half-brick, and 
by night the garrison was his, body and soul. 
He then insisted that his promised number 
of men should be made up at once, as the 



Some Data. 157 

nights were dark and good for assaults. After 
the company came I believe Ted prayed for 
an assault. It did not come that night, nor 
the next night; but it did come the night 
after. 

It was awfully dark. Before us was the 
ink-like water, that we could only hear as it 
lapped against the walls; behind us, the black 
hole we called the fort. The sentries looked 
like ghosts lurking here and there; the still- 
ness was intense. Ted kept watch himself 
that night, lying flat on the highest point of 
debris. The water had been his home, and 
he knew every sound and motion it could 
make. Still-liunting had been his delight, 
and the darkness held no shadow he did not 
know. I was lying close beside him, yet I 
could scarcely define his outline in the gloom, 
and his face looked an impalpable bit of 
whiteness. 

For hours we lay there, when, shortly after 
midnight, my musings faded from me, and I 
became conscious of some disturbing change. 
I would have said that the atmosphere had 
tightened about me. I turned; Ted had 
drawn closer to me, and was gazing over my 
shoulder, almost. His face was drawn; his 



158 Fto)ii Dixie. 

eyes had narrowed to points of light; he was 
quivering like a high-bred dog on a tense 
point ! 

''Yes — ss" he hissed softly, " yis — ss ! " 
I looked in the direction of his gaze. There 
was a blacker line on the black water ! 

'' Barges ! " Ted said. '' Go to your head- 
quarters; and, Robin, bricks can kill, too ! " 
Then he went away quickly into the dark- 
ness. 

There came a silent sort of stir in the fort; 
a little rolling of rubbish as the men went to 
their positions; a few low-voiced orders, then 
we waited. The black line came nearer, and 
behind it another line that turned toward the 
right. 

A sort of blood-thirsty excitement took pos- 
session of me, and I fingered the hand-gren- 
ades impatiently. Our fire was to be held 
until the moment of landing, when the orders 
were to give them all we could. It was a 
breathless moment, then a line of fire darted 
from point to point, outlining the grim old 
ruin against the darkness. Cries and shouted 
orders; for the confusion of surprise was on 
the enemy; while the whole harbor blazed 
with shot and shell from other batteries and 



Some Data. 159 

gun-boats ! And on the highest point, ex- 
posed to fire of friend and foe, full in the 
lurid glare, I saw Ted standing for an instant, 
glowing with the fierce joy of battle ! 

When all was over, Ted sat down by me. 
''It was a near thing, Rob," he said; ''but 
we won, and 'twas worth ten years of ordi- 
nary life." He held that brick-pile for 
months; was wounded, was sick; but he 
never went to hosiDital. I did, but not by 
the path of glory. The magazine exploded, 
nobody knew how, and some fellows were 
caught in the passage. It was hot work get- 
ting out those burned, broken creatures from 
that raging fire, and I would have done bet- 
ter if I had been bigger. As I got the fel- 
low I was dragging to the opening, they took 
him from me so suddenly that I stumbled, 
and a falling timber caught my leg. 

The enemy were shelling us like fun, but 
Ted let everything go and worked like a con- 
vict till I was freed. Then he took me up 
as if I had been a baby, with the tears roll- 
ing down his cheeks, and kissed me like the 
mother he had always been to me. The men 
who helped were sniffling, but perhaps that 
was the smoke. 



IV. 



" Who knows the end? or in what record written 
The crowned results abide? 
The volume closed not with an Abel smitten 
Or Christ the crucified." 

It is not often given to a people to suffer 
as the Southern people have suffered, and 
whether the war was their own fault, or 
whether it was a judgment on them for their 
sins of omission and commission, of '' negli- 
gence and ignorance, " is between them and 
their God. But whatever was the account 
against them, it has been wiped out with a 
sponge dipped in tears and blood, and the 
slate is clean for the score of this new gen- 
eration — this " New South." God help them! 

In '64 Ted was ordered to Virginia. We 
did a good deal of work round the '' Crater " 
at Petersburg, where Ted lost an arm, and was 
made brigadier-general. We went through 
it all, he and I, down to Bentonville. The 
cause died there, and the blackness of dark- 
ness seemed to settle over us. Deep Haven 
had fallen in '62, and everything had been 



Some Data. 1^)1 

confiscated. Mont of the country houses had 
been burned; most of the town houses were 
occupied by negroes or " carpet-baggers," and 
all of the lands had been cut up into forty- 
acre lots and given to the negroes. Some 
people had gone back, I don't know why, and 
among them, Ted. He had become possessed 
of the overseer's house on grandfather's plan- 
tation, and had settled there with Isabel and 
the boys. 

■ Late in 'Qo I had two parishes in the upper 
part of the State, with a salary of four hun- 
dred dollars a year — a fortune just after the 
war. In March, ^66, 1 determined to go down 
and see Ted and Deep Haven for myself, for 
the letters were unsatisfactory. I had no 
trunk, so I packed a large box full of comfor- 
table things for Isabel's housekeeping, and 
putting my clothes in my old knapsack, I 
set forth on my journey. A railway to Deep 
Haven seemed as bad to me then as a raihvay 
to Jerusalem does now, and the station, and 
Cousin Charles Caryl's house as a hotel, was 
all like a nightmare. I found that I could 
not get a boat to go over to Ted's until next 
morning, so I determined to walk out to 
Headland that afternoon. A Federal General 
11 



102 From Di. 



vie. 



bad made it liis home, lience tlie ferry was 
kept up. It would take a book to tell all I 
saw aud heard, and felt on that walk — and 
Headland itself! The house had been painted 
afresh, and the grand old trees had been 
trimmed, and the trunks whitewashed! It 
had a snobby, shoppy look to it that was 
dreadful. I hated it! But in the garden 
Aunt Mary's jonquils were swaying in the 
wind, and the same old Toby working auiong 
them. I sat down behind a hedge and cried. 
I stopped presently, for I was weary with my 
journey and the walk, and tears hurt a man — 
even a little man. 

The hedge behind whicb I was sitting 
went up to the garden, so that I was safe 
from observation, and to calm myself I looked 
away from Toby and the jonquils, out over 
the water. That was unchanged, and a 
canoe being propelled across by one oar at 
the stern, looked supremely natural. As the 
boat neared the shore my heart rose up to 
my eyes, and I crept along the hedge, watch- 
ing the little craft like a snake-charmed bird. 
A fair-haired little boy made it fast to the 
landing. T don't know how I saw that, for 
all my l)eing was Avatching the tall, gaunt 



Some Data. IGo 

figure in the old gray uniform, with one 
empty sleeve pinned to his breast. All the 
gold had gone off of coat and cap ; all the 
buttons were covered with black. His beard 
and hair were touched with gray; his face 
was thin and white and set. He walked up 
the old path as quietly as if he still owned 
it, carrying a string of fish. Old Toby met 
him, hat in hand. 

" Huddy, Mawsa! " 

^'Well,''Toby?" 

''Yes, mawsa; lucky, suh." 

" Here are the fish, Toby." The old num 
took them away to the back of the house, 
and, left alone, Ted stood there like a wooden 
image. He did not lean against anything; 
he did not look at anything until a lady ap- 
peared on the piazza. He did not look at 
her, but he took off his cap and held it until 
Toby came back with some money. 

" Good-bye, Mawsa." 

'' Good-bye, Toby." Then as Ted turned 
aw^ay the old gray cap went on with a grace 
no prince could have bettered, and the old 
negro, leaning on his rake, watched him wist- 
fully, like a puzzled child. 



164 From Dixie. 

A week after this Ted lay dying. Insuffi- 
cient food, insufficient clothing, and a broken- 
heart; the doctor called it pneumonia. Isabel 
and I had been watching all night, witli Ted- 
die and Robin taking turns to bring in wood 
for the fire. In the dark hour before the 
dawn, Ted opened his eyes. 

'^ I wish I had some of mother's jonquils," 
he said; '^I should like to take them to her." 

^' 1 will get them," I answered. 

It was a long pull. The sound was as quiet 
as if smothered by the heavy white mist that 
lay on it. The stars were beginning to pale 
before the coming day, and the brimming 
tide still flowing in, was near its turning. I 
tied the boat and stole up the walk. All was 
still as death, save the long grey moss that 
swayed like ghostly cerements, and the white 
jonquils that seemed to beckon. 

When I reached them I think I grew mad, 
a frenzy of hatred and revenge seized me, 
and I gathered, and gathered, and gathered, 
till not one was left on the stems. I had 
brought a rice-fanner, tlie only basket Isabel 
had, and I filled it to overflowing. The flow- 
ers secured, I pulled up the roots — pulled 
and pulled — then trampled and stamped the 



Some Data. 165 

beds down — down — down ! My fury was 
growing, and I went away quickly in the 
ghastly light that was neither night nor day. 
I was afraid of myself because of the matches 
in my pocket. 

AVe put his insignia back on Ted's collar 
(Isabel had kept the things as women will), 
and took the black covers off his buttons. 
We put on his red sash, and his belt and 
sword, and the gold cross-cannon on the old 
gray cap that we laid down by his side with 
the sword; but in the hand that rested on 
his breast, we put the white jonquils for his 
mother. 

Did he say any last words? Yes. He said, 
'^ It has been a hard fight to forgive my ene- 
mies, Robin, but I've won; and for reward 
the stranger people sent me all the jonquils." 

Sarah Barnwell Elliott. 



THE FUKLOrCfll. 

A South Carolina boy of sixteen had been fnrloughed to go home 
from the lines near Cold Harbor, June, '64. 

Carelessly exposing himself, while making a farewell visit to friends 
in the trenches, he was killed by a hostile sharpshooter. 

'^ Home," he said, and westward turning. 

Looked upon the setting sun. 
'^Heed the child," a sentry mattered, 

"Safety on the rampart none." 
" Naught I fear," the boy made answer, 

" Battle shock, nor random gun; 
Homeward all my heart advances, 

Victory 's won!" 

In his eyes the light of morning 

Met the slow-declining day. 
Where the bow of peace expanding. 

Lit with hope's celestial ray — 
Born of sunshine, cloud-engendered, 

Sorrow washed in tears away — 
"Strife to. holy calm surrenders," 

Seems to say. 



The FvrJi>in/]i. H\7 

Fair lie stood, as in a vision, 

When witli sudden cry of dread, 
Forward sprang each sturdy comrade, 

To support the fallen liead. 
Swift a thirsty flash, unerring, 

To the font of life had sped! 
Calm he lay. We bent above him; 

" Home he goeth," some one said. 
With the dew our tears w^ere falling, 

O'er the dead! 

John B. Tabb, 1878. 



